


Lover to your nightmare (look what you made of me)

by Dapperscript, merrythoughts



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Het, Betrayal, Bitterness, Blood Kink, Disturbing Themes, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Eventual Happy Ending, Face Slapping, Gunplay, Hallucinations, Humiliation/Embarrassment Kink, Introspection, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Instability, Power Dynamics, Pseudo-Feminization, Rimming, Roleplay Logs, Sadomasochism, Safewords, Teasing, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2018-11-22 03:19:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 108,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dapperscript/pseuds/Dapperscript, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: Driving back home, it’s then he reflects on Hannibal asking him to run awaythatnight. To forgo their plans altogether, to slip away.[Canon divergent. Will confesses his betrayal and asks Hannibal to run away with him, but Will has a plan of his own...]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Sorry, for the delete & repost...)
> 
> Co-written as a roleplay with alternating PoVs. 
> 
> This may start a wee bit dark, but will have a happy ending... Please heed the tags. Tags updated as story progresses as well.
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)  
> Many thanks to [attic-nights](http://attic-nights.tumblr.com) for the beta!

They’re playing a game of sorts, but it’s one Will believes Hannibal Lecter is not, for once, aware of. This is his biggest advantage. Will comes to Hannibal’s dinner table, they eat and they share smiles and glances that he’s not even sure of their meaning. (Likely, he doesn’t want to know.) He’s resumed his therapy and while Hannibal says nothing to implicate himself, Will is not in the dark. No, not anymore. He  _sees._ He  _knows_ now. This man is not his friend. This man is not merely a surgeon turned psychiatrist. This man, a part of Baltimore high society, smiling graciously and hosting fabulous dinner parties, is in fact, the Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal Lecter is a murderer. Hannibal Lecter enjoys playing God and Hannibal has, single handedly, altered Will’s life irrevocably.

Society will never be short of psychopaths and he can be  _useful,_ so Will helps on cases once more. He dresses a bit sharper and seems functional, at least in appearances. Hannibal enjoys being involved in the cases, moreso now that Will’s along for the ride and the doctor isn’t merely walking in his shoes. Their talks are less about abstract concepts and more poignantly focused on Will and what Hannibal hopes is growing inside of him. Will doesn’t know what’s growing inside of him, he’s barely holding it together on the best of days - anger and hurt feel like his new norm. He’s less twitchy, less naive - a changed man really. Perhaps he should say thank-you to the good doctor for his meddling has pruned away some of his household anxiety.

Will’s less afraid of himself. He knows what’s he capable of (or at least he  _thinks_ he does).

He was bitter toward Alana Bloom for a time, for it was her suggestion that brought Hannibal to him. But while in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, she’d been one of his only allies. A friend, almost. Granted, she hadn’t  _believed_ him. She’d fought for him, worked hard on his unconscionable defense, but no… Beverly Katz had been the only friend to give him perhaps the benefit of the doubt, something Jack Crawford apparently couldn’t even manage. But because of him, Beverly was dead. Just like Abigail, she had got involved in something - with someone - that had proven to be a disastrous mistake.

Despite Jack  _wanting_ to believe now, despite their aim to trap the real Chesapeake Ripper, Will still feels alone.

Will doesn’t know whether or not to classify his fantasies as nightmares or dreams, but he often closes his eyes and his imagination treats him to various scenarios of him killing Hannibal. In them, Will’s shot him in the head - relishing in that shocked and half incredulous expression worn on Hannibal’s face. Yeah, a gun isn’t intimate, but it does the job just fine. He’s strangled him with his bare hands. With a scalpel, Will’s sliced his throat like Garret Jacob Hobbs had done to his wife and daughter. Sometimes it’s the wendigo he kills, sometimes it’s simply Hannibal, but no matter how  _righteous_ it feels, Will’s never satisfied in the end.

His dogs are a welcome distraction, but their presence barely soothes over his edges; it wasn’t the same as before. His house is no longer a beacon of light to look back at. He has no paddle. He’s lost a surrogate daughter and an unborn child to Hannibal. He nearly lost his goddamn mind for that matter. His friendship with Alana is practically nonexistent, she’s perhaps the only one truly suspicious of his motives, not keen to forgive him for siccing Matthew Brown on the poor innocent doctor. It sickens him to think of Hannibal and her  _together._ A couple? A  _relationship._ It’s laughable, but his jealousy burns nonetheless. Thus far, he’s managed to refuse asking Hannibal just what the fuck he was doing and  _why,_ but it’s only just.

Will’s on the fence, playing nice with Jack Crawford while plotting his demise with Hannibal. Yet Will can see both version of events transpiring. Wouldn’t it be nice to see the horrified and shocked look on Jack’s face when he realized Will wasn’t ‘his man?’ On the other hand, Hannibal caught and exposed, locked up in a cell with the key thrown out… it’s something to be desired.

But Will Graham is a truly conflicted man. He wants to destroy Hannibal Lecter and yet the idea of Jack and the FBI catching and containing him pisses him off. There’s a part of Will that feels possessive of him, like Hannibal has somehow rubbed off on him.

Driving back home, it’s then he reflects on Hannibal asking him to run away  _that_ night. To forgo their plans altogether, to slip away. ‘ _Almost polite,’_ he'd commented. ‘ _Almost_   _romantic_ ,’ Will’s mind had supplied. Like eloping - other guests, their friends, be damned - for they were all that mattered. Does Hannibal’s possessiveness… does it perhaps hold a greater depth that Will hasn’t let himself think on? Does Hannibal love him? Could he even? Will’s uncertain, but now he has an idea of how to hurt Hannibal - or at least die trying.

It would be an act of reciprocity, just like Randall Tier, but it would cut far deeper if Will was right in his assumption. There was now a long game to be played and this time Hannibal, in the end, would be left vulnerable and betrayed.

When he gets home, he packs a duffel bag of his essentials. He feeds his dogs, takes them outside and watches them happily run around. For a moment he gets nostalgic, wanting to return to a simpler time when being at home was a refuge of sorts, where he could take comfort and relief in seeing his mutts. When they all return inside, Will writes a note for Alana and tucks it into an envelope, leaving it on the table. He momentarily considers leaving something for Jack, but decides against it in the end. He doesn't know what he would write. He sets out copious amounts of dishes with more food and water, but he suspects Hannibal’s disappearance coinciding with his own absence will jerk everyone into motion quite quickly.

Standing by his now-repaired window, Will takes out his cell and calls Hannibal. He’s still not quite sure what he will say, but his hand doesn't shake. As soon as the line connects and he hears a familiar, ‘Hello’ Will steels himself. Time for his performance.

“I need you. Something’s happened. Can you come now?” Will says, just the slightest of nerves bleeding into his tone, but it will help in this request. Although very careful by nature, Hannibal won’t be able to resist his plea.

* * *

 The table has been set. The Last Supper.

Jesus had sat with Judas, breaking bread, silent, watching, aware of the deception. Jesus voiced this knowledge aloud -  that one of his disciples in attendance would betray him. He listened to each man denounce the accusation as preposterous, and had silently listened to Judas dismiss the possibility.

That night, with Will at his side - his expression as cloaked and serene as it has been for weeks - Hannibal looks at Will in silence, studying the play of the candlelight across his features. He looks delicate and horrible in equal measure, his edges blurred by the soft lighting, and Hannibal finds himself wondering for a split second if Will has  _ever_ been his. Jesus - in an act of something Hannibal now assumes had been hope - had voiced the knowledge of the upcoming deception to his followers, and Hannibal finds himself suddenly able to understand the sting of Judas' denouncement. The scent of patchouli and lilac unique to Miss Lounds still burns the back of his nose and Hannibal doubts he will ever enjoy the scents again. Yet despite this, he says nothing, dining with Will as if nothing has changed, as if their plans are still in effect. As the night draws on, betrayal and anger simmer low in his stomach. Hannibal watches Will eat, watches his throat move delicately each time he swallows, and envisions himself lifting his knife to stab through it. The thought, righteous as it would be, gives him nothing, no pleasure, no satisfaction, only cold.

Will's deception is so vast that even now Hannibal finds himself surprised by his desire to simply overlook what he knows. There is a side of himself that wishes to be blind - ironically one Will himself had likely once faced. Despite Hannibal's bitterness, despite the coiling ache deep in his chest as they speak casually of a future that will never be, he cannot help but be impressed with Will's deception. Hannibal's expression gives away nothing. He locks every emotion down, portraying only what he wishes to portray, and Will sees nothing. That is perhaps most telling. Yet despite it all, Hannibal wishes to change what he knows, to somehow take the last few months and redo them. He had assumed what he'd been building with Will had been made of stronger material, had assumed every moment - Will's becoming, his careful interplay, his growing favor - had been constructed with steel, not shoddily built in a bucket filled with sand, poised precariously in front of an oncoming wave.

It is desperation alone that finally prompts Hannibal into speaking. He's quiet - a variance in his tone betrays his wishes as he tells Will they could leave tonight. Though it defies logic (and this is horribly telling, for Hannibal has never actively sought to hide from reality like this), if Will were to understand, to agree, to silently pack up his bags and leave on the first flight, Hannibal believes he would forgive him. He would be blind, would turn away from the clear deception. For once, he would allow logic to simply slide through his fingers like sand on the beach, would sit before the oncoming tide, secure that the shoddy sandcastle would withstand the ocean's wrath.

But Will's answer is absolute, and so achingly crafted that Hannibal has to admire him. Were he not aware of the deception, the answer would have swayed him. It's low and stilted, contemplative, like Will is actually  _thinking_. Like he  _needs_ to kill Jack tomorrow, like his loyalties have not been called into question. The realization is crushing and admirable, and Hannibal goes silent, then lifts his wine glass to his lips. The bite of alcohol is bitter and Hannibal's eyes sting. To the truth, then. To Judas Iscariot and his thirty pieces of silver.

Will leaves that evening and Hannibal cleans up all remnants of the meal. Sometime tomorrow, Jack Crawford will arrive and die by his hands at least. Freddie Lounds is not dead. Hannibal is uncertain how deeply Will's betrayal goes, but he feels it is safe to say that Jack will not be arriving tomorrow unarmed. He's silent and quiet as he works, leaving enough out for Abigail, who tentatively creeps her way downstairs, takes one look at him and the deep set to his expression, and decides against commenting. Instead she silently grabs a plate and retreats back upstairs. Hannibal doesn't watch her go.

Depending on the outcome tomorrow, he is uncertain as to her fate. Yet he is unwilling to leave anything up to chance. He's silent and quick as he works, cleaning and sanitizing everything, rolling his sleeves up as he lowers himself to the floor to clean it properly. He disposes of all traces of those he'd left in storage and descends into the basement beneath his floorboards in order to ensure every last spot is cleaned. Hannibal knows his time at this house is short, and as he gives everything a final clean and disposes of the sparse remnants of his equipment (the rest tossed before he and Will had started burning patient files) his thoughts linger bitterly upon Will.

He'd talked of an imago earlier that evening. An image - an ideal - and his ideal of Will Graham has been shaken. Yet despite it all, he cannot say for certain that his reality ruins the imago. He cannot return to that ideal now, but he can cement the imago in his mind. He can reflect on Will in his memory palace, can begin construction for when all of this - every part of it - crumbles to dust.

It's nearing midnight by the time Hannibal finishes. Hannibal walks familiar halls once more, trailing his fingers over a well-worn sofa. In the morning he will come downstairs, he will make breakfast, and he will go to work. Tomorrow evening, everything will change.

Hannibal almost misses the sound of his phone ringing, his mind is so occupied. It registers on the second ring and, after a quick glance at the ornate antique clock on the wall, Hannibal walks to the kitchen and picks up the phone, holding it up to his ear. “Hello?”

He is expecting very little; few people have his personal number. Emergency patients have been known to track it down, and Alana, of course, has the number. Hannibal isn’t expecting the voice over the phone, and the moment he hears Will’s low, strained tone, Hannibal stills. He’s quiet for a long moment, simply listening. Something twists deep in his chest. Something doesn’t feel right, but the tone - the words used - have something  _else_ twisting in his stomach. Hannibal is silent for a short count. Then he draws in a deep, steadying breath and lets it out.

“Stay where you are. I will be there as soon as I can.”

Hannibal hangs up and goes for his coat and keys immediately. Yet before he steps foot outside, he hesitates and then silently makes his way back inside and up the stairs. He converses quickly with Abigail, telling her where he’s going, and that he’ll be back shortly. He also tells her that if he isn’t, that she’s to keep her phone charged and await his call. Then he kisses the crown of her head and turns. He’s in his car and on the road before the hour changes.

The drive to Wolf Trap has always been long and yet somehow this trip above all else seems longest. His Bentley flies unchecked down the road, for on the old roads, no police will be monitoring. Few people drive  _to_ Wolf Trap, and despite the simmering hurt and bitterness of Will’s achingly pointed betrayal, Hannibal still rushes to get there. There is a slim chance, after all, that this is something important. Until the guillotine fully lowers, until he sees the fruits of Will’s deception, Hannibal will still treat him as he deserves. Will is still his friend even now, and Hannibal’s friendship is not something (most) people take lightly.

He arrives at Will’s home a half an hour before midnight and though he expects the night to be quiet and still, Hannibal finds himself surprised to see a figure standing on the porch. It doesn’t take him long to realize that it’s Will, and a small note of simmering concern eases down into a low burn. Will doesn’t look injured, doesn’t look like he’s being held. So while something old and tired lifts its head within Hannibal’s chest, he merely parks his car, slips the keys out of the ignition, and steps out. He stands, looking at Will, simply taking him in, and then slowly crosses the distance between them.

Hannibal glances around, taking in the stillness. There are no tracks in the soil next to Will’s driveway; there’s no proof anyone else is here. There’s just Will. Hannibal looks at him - at Judas himself - and lifts his chin in silent greeting, baring his throat figuratively and literally to Will’s intense focus.

“Will,” Hannibal says simply. The word is prompting and tame. While he’s curious, that doesn’t negate what he knows. The quiet before the storm.

* * *

 At the minimum, it will take Hannibal thirty-five to forty-five minutes to get to Wolf Trap if he speeds. Will assumes that the good doctor will be doing just that. Will Graham in trouble and seeking help? It's too good to be true! There's nothing Hannibal would love more than to swoop in to the rescue. The thought of Hannibal 'helping' him makes him want to snort. It was a laughable concept - in the past Hannibal's idea of help has been dubious at best. Will still can't believe Hannibal let him suffer with the encephalitis for so long under the guise of being his therapist and friend. And that had just been the tip of the iceberg, really. Hannibal's list of offenses is lengthy, but Will knows what's at the top: none other than Abigail Hobbs. His 'success' story first perverted by Hannibal and then snatched away.

Well, Will sure knows how to pick 'em. He'd hooked a cannibalistic serial killer with a penchant for the dramatics.

He heads to his small bathroom and takes a shower. Normally Will finds the task relaxing, but this is for practicality. He will be clean and fresh for Hannibal. He hopes to wash away his indecision, his doubt, to let it slid off off him and down the drain. As the minutes tick by and he scrubs at himself with whatever body wash he happened to last buy, Will doesn't feel much more decided on what he'll do. All he knows is that Jack Crawford and the FBI will not get to have Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal is  _his_.

He dries off, forgoes shaving and any aftershave (he remembers that off-putting comment from years ago...). Will has a nicer navy blue button-down shirt that he's been saving for a special occasion. He slips it on, selecting to wear black dress pants as well. He even forgoes normal hiking boots for whatever rip off Doc Martens he has. To top it off, he puts on his dark gray wool overcoat, the collar flicked up because he  _can_. He checks his gun once before placing it into his pocket. Will drags the duffel bag out to his porch and turns in the doorway giving one last look to his dogs and his home. There would be no going back. For better or worse, Hannibal is his future - the older man has made sure of it.

Waiting on the porch, he deliberately ignores the snort of his stag that would like to grab his attention. He swallows, the brisk night air chilling what skin is exposed. He should have worn gloves. It's not too late to go back in and grab a pair, but Will is feeling stubborn. When the stag stomps a hoof, Will throws it a unimpressed look. "You're not real," he tells the beast. Onyx eyes stare back at him, eyelids blinking. It's beautiful under the moonlight, sleek and majestic. Proud... It  _looks_ fucking real, breathing and watching him. Will sighs.

Hannibal already plagues him in reality, so it seems entirely unfair for him to make appearances in his crazy too. Then again, it  _is_ Hannibal Lecter. His messed up head knows that the man would love nothing more than to pop up in all domains - dreams, nightmares, thoughts, hallucinations. But Hannibal will get a taste of his medicine. Will is going to get under Hannibal's skin, he's going to squeeze into veins, be circulated through the older man's body, and fed to every vital organ. Will's taste will remain on Hannibal's tongue, his scent linger in Hannibal's nostrils. He's going to make Hannibal ache for his touch.

Will is going to haunt him. Hurt him. Wreck him. Betray him. Hannibal will rue the day that he decided to play with Will Graham.

At the sound of a car approaching, Will straightens. A moment later, a familiar Bentley pulls into his driveway. Will stands resolute, waiting for Hannibal to park, exit the vehicle and then make his way over. (Hannibal will come to him.) Will regards him carefully.

"I was conspiring with Jack to trap you tomorrow," Will starts casually, treating his confession as simple gossip versus the betrayal it was. "But driving home tonight I realized that I couldn't let them have you."

He takes a step closer, until they're half an arm's length apart. "Turns out, I'm not ready to let you go."

Will's head tilts to the side as if considering his next words more carefully. "I need you, Hannibal. You okay with that? Still want me?"

He licks his lips, eyes looking intently at Hannibal's face, keen to observe the flickers of emotion.

* * *

 There is a heavy tension on the air between them in the light from the headlights of Hannibal's Bentley. The car's lights are timed to go off after a minute, giving its owner time to find their way inside in the dark. It assumes, of course, that the dark is not what Hannibal wants. Yet as he approaches Will, as he feels the increase of tension on the air, as he looks up at him on the porch and rakes his gaze over Will's form, he realizes that just because Will is cast in the bright light does not mean he's not walking in the dark. Hannibal stills and his breath clouds the air in front of him, the air thick yet chilled. There's rain on the horizon. Fitting, perhaps, for what is certain to be something spectacular if Will has not elected to change the playing field. Hannibal looks at him; they lock eyes and there is a space of three heartbeats where Hannibal considers stepping in, cradling Will's face in his hands tenderly, and then throwing his weight to the side to break his neck.

A thrill slides dark and cold up his spine. He ignores it. In the light from the headlights, Will's expression is carefully blank, and just as Hannibal's eyes trail down enough to notice the duffel bag on the porch, Will's voice lifts.

He sounds casual, uncaring. This is simply idle gossip. Were Hannibal not so fixated on this moment, this beautiful moment of betrayal, he would have ignored the words in favor of his curiosity over Will's packed bag. As it so happens, Will's words strike like a physical blow. Will doesn't  _need_ the gun in his pocket (for Hannibal can see the outline of it and it intrigues him) because his words are the only lash he will ever need. A deep chill settles in Hannibal's bones that has nothing to do with the cold air. His gaze moves slowly up the length of Will's body to settle on his eyes and his own expression goes painfully blank as Will explains. Hannibal's breaths are soft and shallow, his fingers cold in the chill of the air as the breeze rustles his hair. The long coat he wears does little against this chill and Hannibal's heart wrenches painfully in his chest, exposing its barbs, its desire to wound, to  _end_ , but he carefully swallows it back.

Jack had known. This... isn't a complete surprise, but having the confirmation is mortally wounding. Hannibal doesn't shy away from the reality. He listens. He's silent, his expression blank despite the flicker of real pain behind his eyes. For a moment he simply considers killing Will again. Squeezing the life from his throat, feeling bones shatter under his palms. He considers violence, messy and reckless and fueled with passion, his fist landing again and again until all that remains is the sign of betrayal. And for the final moment, Hannibal considers the knife in his pocket. Considers gutting Will as he feels gutted himself. Yet as the thoughts slide over his mind like darkness, one thought stands out harshly in his mind: Will is  _telling him_. He's still talking.

_"I couldn't let them have you... I'm not ready to let you go... I need you, Hannibal…”_

The last, soft words as Will steps in close are like a physical noose around his neck. The scars on his wrists ache suddenly and Hannibal simply looks at Will in absolute silence, hardly breathing, hardly doing more than looking at him. For a pointed moment, Hannibal merely searches his eyes.

_“I need you, Hannibal…”_

Behind the scarf wrapped around his neck, Hannibal's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

_“Still want me?...”_

The words are a rose: soft, velvet petals and beautiful bouquet sliding over his senses, blinding him to the thorns slowly and firmly lodging under his skin. Hannibal considers this - Will Graham - his rose, soft, vulnerable, sweet to his senses, simple to kill. As Hannibal looks at him, breathes in a scent devoid of aftershave, he fingers the stem of the flower in his mind, and then slowly, knowingly wraps his hands around it, feeling the bite of thorns into his skin.

"Yes," he says softly, and the word holds so much weight that his shoulders drop.

Hannibal looks at Judas and breathes in deep. He is no longer blind. Yet in a twist of irony in the face of a deity Hannibal has never believed in, he does as is apparently Divine. He forgives.

He draws in an audible breath and lets it out slowly. His hand - chilled from the air - lifts from his side, leaving the weight of the knife in his pocket as he slowly presses his palm to Will's cheek. The scrape of stubble is rough, his skin chilled, but the contact feels crucial. Hannibal simply touches this man, shaken and rent open, yet welcoming. Betrayal burns, but he lifts no weapon to Will's throat. Hannibal merely looks at Will with a sadness behind his eyes, pointed, sharp, hurt. As honesty is apparently in their cards now, Hannibal takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and his thumb carves a soft path over Will's cheekbone in lieu of a blade.

"I knew. I knew you had not killed Miss Lounds. I was... not aware of the  _depth_ of your deception, perhaps, but I knew. Even now, I am not entirely certain what I planned to do."

Another slow stroke over Will's cheek, harder, edged with a nail. Hannibal swallows again. "I believe... Jack would not have been the only casualty. I considered killing you tonight as we dined on lamb at my table. Your deception was beautiful, Will. Had I not known..." Hannibal trails off, and there is a low pride and hurt in his eyes. There's anger too, but it's low, simmering. Will has chosen  _him_.

"I am not entirely certain that I won't kill you yet... I should. You have been  _rude_ , Will... but yet..."

Hannibal shakes his head and strokes his thumb over Will's cheek again. Suddenly the lights from the car go dim and the two of them are cast in darkness but for the light of the moon. Hannibal doesn't move.

"Why am I here, Will? Why have you called me? To use the gun in your pocket? Or... perhaps the bag on your porch?"

* * *

Headlights illuminate this encounter and while that perfect expressionless mask slides into place on Hannibal's face, Will can make out hurt in Hannibal's eyes at his confession. Since resuming his therapy, they had, mostly, been honest with each other - as close to equals and friends as they had ever been. Likely Will is the single person Hannibal can actually  _be_ himself with, and even then there had been sins of omission. Hannibal had taken a leap of faith with him and Will had pulled the rug from underneath him. It can't be easy to stomach, someone like Hannibal who plays friendly with everyone, yet is truly alone. Misunderstood. One identity judged merely as a psychopath, another as a bland, but well dressed socialite and psychiatrist. And he'd picked Will Graham as the apple of his eye. Unstable. Rough around the edges. Reckless. A unique empathy disorder, but nothing diagnosed. The mongoose under the house. He'd been bit by the snake in the beginning, but it hadn't been fatal. (It was Hannibal Lecter who both caged and set him free, after all.)

For all his deception, Hannibal not killing him immediately tells Will all he needs to know. He's also told him  _yes._ Despite his better judgement, despite the hurt, Hannibal wants him. It has to be love. That potent chemical reaction blinding Hannibal, forcing him to ignore his better reason. Hannibal is a fucking idiot in love.  _With_  him. The great Chesapeake Ripper brought this low and  _by_   _him_. It's a powerful feeling and it courses through his veins, Will's own unique brand of adrenaline.

A cold hand is brought to his face, cupping it - a sweet gesture, yet Will knows there's no sweetness behind it. In the stables, with Mr. Ingram on his knees begging for mercy, Hannibal had done this very thing, going on about him whispering into the chrysalis, but not knowing what would emerge. Will's certain Hannibal still doesn't know. (Will might not know either.)

But Hannibal has own confession. More reciprocity between the two of them. Will shivers, but he doesn't know if it's from the gentle touch - a thumb stroking across his cheek - or the knowledge that Hannibal had known about Freddie and  _still_ had offered for them to run away earlier this evening. It's a daunting realization, one that steals a bit of Will's thunder and has a shocked expression coming to his features. More importantly, it speaks of just how far Hannibal would go for him. His nail drags along his cheek and Will pushes into it. The possibility of death by Hannibal's hand seems poetic as they both harbor an urge to kill one another - it's fitting, really. The car's headlights abruptly turn off and Will steps even closer. He's never been a smart man.

_“Why am I here, Will? Why have you called me? To use the gun in your pocket? Or... perhaps the bag on your porch?”_

"That's a good question," Will replies, features relaxing. "You want to kill me, I want to kill you... But I think it would be more interesting to leave together, wouldn't you?" An eyebrow raises as Will stands his ground. It's the closest they've been, and Will can't resist reaching up and grabbing onto Hannibal's collar and yanking him a few inches closer. "You want to take me away, don't you?"

* * *

After the illumination from the headlights the darkness seems much more vast. Dark adaptation has yet to settle in, and Hannibal cannot help but find it fitting that Will chooses to step closer in this instant. Under the pale light of the moon for a moment Hannibal can see nothing. Will has vanished but for his touch. He imagines a knife, imagines the stem of his rose ripped out of his hand and the deep tracks of thorns across his palm. Yet Will does nothing. There is no shuffle and click of his hand reaching for his gun, just as Hannibal does not reach for the thick, short switchblade in his pocket. They are at a standstill, both aware, both  _seeing_ the other for perhaps the first time. It is as much a pageant as it is a threat. Hannibal looks at Will in silence, fixes his eyes where Will's are going to be when his vision clears, and when the moon finally re-asserts her dominance and Hannibal's eyes adjust, Will's eyes are the first thing he sees.

How simple would it be to end him here and return to normalcy? Hannibal has no ties to this place. His files have been burned, his office has been bought out, his home will be sold and the proceeds will go to charity, as per his stipulations in the letter he'd left behind. It would be simple to kill Will Graham and leave him laying peacefully in the snow, his parts intact for he is not a  _pig_ despite this act of betrayal. The imago could remain, his mental image of this man. He could break down the walls in their memory palace, for his has long since combined with Will's. He could find him there every day, could speak with him, content in the man who could not betray him. Hannibal could return home, could gather Abigail up, and could take her and they could both go. Baltimore is convenient but it is not the sole place to stay. Hannibal's thumb strokes along Will's cheek one final time before stilling.

He can't do it.

Hannibal's lips pull up into a mild smile, and there are so many emotions mixed within. He's resigned and bitter, angry and proud, and above all of it, he's hurt. He swallows, but even as Will reaches up to grip the collar of his coat, even as Will jerks him closer (and Hannibal allows it) Hannibal has already made up his mind. Silently he meets the hollowness of Will's eyes with an answering void, and then allows himself to simply look at this man. He follows the strong cheekbones down to an even stronger jaw, following the lines of Will's face until coming to rest at his lips. They're pale in the moonlight, and yet - this close - Hannibal is ever tempted.

He does nothing. He merely looks back at Will and moves his hand up, slowly sliding his fingers back through Will's hair with an aching softness. His hair is damp and cold; it seems fitting. Cold like the farce of understanding between them. Hannibal wants to withdraw and destroy in equal measure, wishes nothing more then to drop the rose, aware of the thorns, but Will's petals are like velvet, and for the first time in his life, Hannibal is weak. His hand eases back down and his fingers wrap slowly and purposefully around Will's throat, feeling his pulse.

"Would you leave with me, Will?" Hannibal asks softly, purposefully ignoring the bait.

Instead he simply asks like he hadn't done so earlier. It's the same tone he'd used at the table - a familiar mask, a comforting chord on a piano. His touch is pointedly light.

"Would you leave this? Your job, your home, your dogs? Would you take your bag and climb into my car?"

Hannibal's grip tightens just a fraction. His expression doesn't change. "Would you choose  _me?_ "

* * *

Will believes he is safe. He doesn't know of the blade Hannibal has tucked away - not that the man needs a weapon to take him down by any means. Will may be scrappy, but Hannibal has years of experience and both the larger body and muscle power. He could overcome Will easily; he could break his body. Hannibal could choose punishment, bang down the gavel and sentence Will for his crime, but leniency seems to be coming his way. It's really quite stupid. Will is a liability, he's betrayed Hannibal once and made no apology, no promises, but the longer the moment stretches out, the more certain Will becomes. Hannibal Lecter loves him.

Will watches Hannibal's eyes track down his face and to his lips and his gut twists because he doesn't want to kiss Hannibal - or more accurately, he doesn't want Hannibal  _to kiss him_ and then have to decide what the hell he will do in return. Because Will doesn't know what exactly he wants. Or how far he'll go. He hasn't had enough time to figure out what  _is_ between them, exactly. Because Will isn't in denial. He knows that there's  _something_ there, some undercurrent of electricity that sparks between them. He knows that their glances linger far longer than what's polite to do so, he knows he feels drawn to Hannibal in more ways than one. It's fucked up, whatever it is. Will hasn't ever given any thought to men before, but there's an attraction that persists.

Hannibal doesn’t kiss him. Thankfully. It's a bullet dodged. For now. He remains holding onto the collar of Hannibal's jacket, fingers rubbing against the fabric. Their bodies are almost touching and it wouldn't take much more to press in and see how it feels--

But Will remains still and the hand on his face moves to his hair and Will sighs despite himself

(It feels nice, sue him.) But the hand doesn't stay there, traveling to wrap around his throat instead. Will's pulse jumps, recognizing the danger of this position. It's more exciting than frightening. He pushes into the touch slightly. Hannibal decides to turn the question around on him and Will accepts this is what Hannibal needs in this moment. Hannibal needs to phrase the questions his way and have Will answer.

"If you'll have me, I'll have you," Will says seriously. "Let's go. Right now. Tonight."

* * *

There is not a single part of Hannibal's mind not fully aware that the smart thing to do now would be to kill Will Graham. He doesn't. If killing him isn't an option, injuring him and leaving him as good as dead should be Hannibal's next action. It's one he doesn't take. Instead the chill in the air settles around them as if preserving the moment. Will stands close, bold, aware of the creature he holds so firmly in his hand yet confident that it will not rebound on him. He's placed his hand in the wolf's maw and pressed against teeth, expecting the animal not to bite, expecting it to resist its nature. And as Will's hand slides over metaphorical fangs, Hannibal feels the urge, the need to bite down, to punish his boldness...

He does nothing.

Instead he falls silent and watches as Will steps slightly closer, leaning into the press against his throat, baring himself to a starved creature, maddened by hurt. At certain limits, even the most loyal of animals will break, and Hannibal wonders just how well trained Will Graham has him. The note of bitter anger and defiance in his chest hints that it is perhaps not as much as Will believes, but Hannibal says nothing. He listens, and he allows the words to wash over him. They are warm and cool at once, a hot rush of satisfaction slipping through him at the same time that a chill slides through his very blood. Letting Will live is a mark of failure. He has been deceived,  _willingly_ deceived. There are no guarantees...

Yet the  _relief_ in his heart is choking just the same. Hannibal feels Will's pulse speed under his palm and he looks at this wonderful, wretched man and wonders if either of them will survive this adventure. Hannibal isn't certain he cares.

"I asked you if you would choose me. Not if you'd  _have_ me," he says slowly, a blank edge to his voice, like the press of the flat of a cool steel blade to Will's cheek. It's nothing more than a reminder, but it speaks of threat. "It would behoove you to keep in mind who I am, Will, and what I am capable of."

Silently, Hannibal slides his hand from Will's throat. It carries Will's warmth on it now. He does nothing but take Will by the wrist and then directs Will's hand over to his own hip. It's something slow, bordering almost on intimacy, but it becomes quite apparent what Hannibal is saying once he settles Will's hand in place. The outline of his knife presses against Will's palm and Hannibal levels him with a blank look that gives nothing away and yet says it all: _You wouldn't have known. Don't underestimate me_.  _I can still kill you_.

"Take your bag and get in the car, please," Hannibal says politely, though his voice is so quiet that one might suspect a sleeping predator close by. With Will's words lingering in his mind ( _Right now. Tonight._ ) Hannibal turns on his heel, exposing his back to a man hungry to stab it, and he quietly walks back to the Bentley. He doesn't look around this property for he has no fond memories of this place, yet even he can feel that a chapter has reached its conclusion. His thoughts drift to Abigail; it would be a simple matter to go back and pick her up. And yet...

Thirty pieces of silver. Would Will get double for them both? The thought is unkind, but it does its job. Hannibal quietly eases himself down in the driver's seat and unlocks Will's door. He won't be saying anything. Until he can guarantee that Will is not attempting to deceive again, Hannibal will sit on his secret and protect her as quietly as he has been doing since her unfortunate 'end'. It doesn't take long for Will to join him and as the car rumbles to life under them both, Hannibal doesn't spare the house a final glance. He allows Will the moment of privacy and indulges in his own. The realization that this is likely happening, that Will has chosen to  _leave with him_ is enough to nearly stun him. Will is not the only one to require a moment's' silence.

"You could have told me this on the phone, though I suppose they were likely tapped, were they?" Hannibal muses as he pulls the Bentley back onto the main road. It's as smooth a drive as ever, the engine purring with power and headlights cutting the darkness aside. Yet as the car goes, Hannibal's thoughts begin to solidify.

"I suppose... you will find a reason to not allow me back to my home, then. Is there a reason, Will? Beyond the power you crave? If nothing else, I must take the time to contact Alana."

* * *

How often has he seen the wendigo take over Hannibal's form? From human to monster, an image transposed over another, a twisted evil creature who delighted in destruction... But Hannibal remains, although the ante has been upped considerably. Will's aware that Hannibal could kill or seriously hurt him and take his leave. Undoubtedly, he already has plans in place. They both know Hannibal  _could_ do it.

But he won't. Will's changed Hannibal, offered him something Hannibal likely hadn't ever been prepared for - to be  _seen_ , to be  _known_. (Truthfully Will wasn't prepared either, for surely it goes both ways.)

Hannibal seeks to remind him, words said in warning or a threat:  _keep in mind who I am, Will, and what I am capable of._ How could Will ever forget? He remembers the sick dread and awe of seeing Beverly Katz sliced into layers, suspended in what reminded him of microscope slides. Like a freak science project gone wrong. Yes, this man is a sadist and artist in equal measure. Will is counting on sentiment to protect him, but it's a dangerous gamble.

It's proven to him as Hannibal relocates his hand and Will makes out the outline of a knife. Will smiles in response because it would appear that they both thought it best to bring weapons along. He may not have known, but he's not surprised by the reveal. Under that calm and impeccable demeanor lies coiled violence, a viper waiting to strike at a moment's notice. Will wouldn't have it any other way. A tamed snake still has its fangs.

Instructed to get into the vehicle, it would appear their almost-stand-off is finished. Will doesn't move for a moment, simply watching Hannibal show him his back and stalk off toward the car. This is it. Now or never. Will grabs his bag and follows. (How could he not? This man is thief and destroyer - what does Will have left but to repay him in kind?) If - and likely when - Hannibal kills him, Will is going to ensure his death has maximum impact - a catastrophe for the Chesapeake Ripper - nothing else will do. He'll leave a wound on that gnarled black heart that never heals. His absence will be felt like a phantom limb. In waking and sleep, Hannibal will be haunted. Give Will time. All he needs is time. Time to exploit that love. To explore and deepen that love.

Will joins Hannibal in the car, his bag carefully maneuvered into the backseat. As much as he wants to throw another lingering glance at the home and life he's leaving, Will stares down at his lap instead. Why bother? Maybe it would hit him later, but right now he just wants to  _go_ (before he changes his mind and either wants to put a bullet in Hannibal's skull or his own).

Will says nothing on the wire tap remark. He's about to give a smug reply that, 'yes, they wouldn't be stopping at Hannibal's home, that it had to be now or never,' but Hannibal brings up Alana and the slice of jealousy that cuts through him has Will turning away and stiffening, eyes looking out the passenger window at the darkness. There is no way that he could  _actually_ be interested in her. It had been a petty swat at Will's hand, Hannibal taking away what he wanted simply because he  _could_.

"If you want me to choose you, I  _won't_ be sharing you, even if your relationship was a farce," Will states coldly, turning back to regard the man beside him as his hand goes to his pocket, feeling the familiar handle of his firearm. "Stop the car. Call her now. Tell her the truth. Break up with her."

* * *

The asphalt under the tires is familiar, the pavement broken and rough on roads less maintained. Hannibal muses on their construction idly with Will a cold weight beside him, the both of them lost in their own thoughts. He has driven this road many times, though he had never intended to get so used to it. He had done so as a courtesy the first time, to catch Will off guard, to see how he'd respond to having his personal space invaded. Pushing, shoving, ever testing. He'd brought breakfast as an excuse; social niceties dictated that Will couldn't refuse without being seen as the rude one despite Hannibal's forceful interjection into his life, and he had responded admirably. Hannibal had expected it to only be that one time; Wolf Trap is not his ideal location. The roads are broken and unpleasant and the bugs swarm, yet he had found himself returning to this old path time and time again. That this is the last time almost threatens to evoke wistfulness or nostalgia. Hannibal breathes in silence as the weight of this realization settles around him like a shield. They're leaving together. If Hannibal has his way, they will never step foot in Wolf Trap again.

The Bentley takes each dip in the road and pothole with skill and Hannibal considers it. Silently, just after he dares to bring up Alana, Hannibal notices the sudden rigidity in Will’s posture. Hannibal is distracted, drawn to the the way Will turns away from Hannibal to look out of the window. Hannibal stills, brought out of his musing by this show of emotion, and Hannibal's hand slowly eases from his pocket. As always, he is but a magpie to Will's shine. A moth to his flame. Drawn toward his discomfort and anger the same way one admires a natural disaster for its sheer force.

He doesn't know what has caused this, but he suspects that Alana's mention has something to do with it. In truth, Hannibal has no desire to call her. He simply wishes to call Abigail and has no issue using his 'relationship' with Alana to do so. To simply leave everything behind seems perfect to Hannibal. Poetic. To not confess, to leave Jack Crawford screaming and frothing at the mouth because he'd lost not only his scapegoat but the Chesapeake Ripper. To leave him rabid, to rob him of his ending... Hannibal can think of little more agonizing for good Jack. To  _know_ and to be left unable to prove it. Had he proof, he would have swept in on Hannibal's abode before now. No, Jack is expecting an attempt on his life. He had intended to use himself as bait, but to use Will as the lure. How fitting that Hannibal is the one to reach in and silently cut the line, to take it all and leave him hanging in the wind. Hannibal hopes he lives long enough to see his wife die for daring to use Will against him.

He fully intends to leave Alana as well. To call her  _would_ be courteous but he has no real desire to do so. Were he on his own, he likely would have, but with Will by his side, things have changed. Save when Will finally speaks up, just as Hannibal turns onto the main road that will take them back to Baltimore in time - deserted as it is - he realizes that perhaps they haven't changed. He stills, his hands somewhat chilled on the steering wheel as he glances sidelong at Will in the dark. He's illuminated by nothing but the faint light from the moon and by occasional street lights that are far too widely-spaced to be helpful. The faint blue numbers of the digital clock on the dashboard do nothing to illuminate more than the edge of Will's hand, yet Hannibal swears he can see their glow on Will's skin when he turns back around to look at him.

The sheer note of  _jealousy_ comes as a mild surprise. Hannibal merely watches Will in silence, taking this in, though he visibly stills as Will's hand drifts down to the pocket that Hannibal knows his gun is in. For a moment he considers the knife in his own pocket, but Hannibal keeps his hands on the steering wheel, silent and contemplative. Will's voice is cold, bitter, angry. He's jealous, possessive, and despite Hannibal's bitterness, the thought thrills him. What Will desires him to do does not.

Hannibal's lips thin almost imperceptibly but despite his visible displeasure, Hannibal signals (even though no one is around for miles) and he carefully pulls the Bentley over onto the shoulder, parking it in silence.

"I hardly see why that would be necessary." Yet even as he speaks, Hannibal reaches for his phone.

To his surprise, Will quickly stops him and one glance at the way Will gestures  _in front_ of the car has Hannibal hesitating. Eyes narrowing in suspicion, he's quiet and then he simply reaches down to undo his seatbelt, his eyes on Will's pocket.

"You are aware that if she was in any way  _aware_ of this plan between you and Jack and Miss Lounds, that this will vastly shorten our window of opportunity," Hannibal prompts. He still reaches over for the door, hesitates one moment as he glances back at the gun in Will's pocket, and then does as told.

He gets out of the car and steps around to the front of it. The engine purrs softly and the rest of the street is eclipsed by the bright headlights. Hannibal squints against them but he cannot see Will in the car. He's quiet for another moment, and then he reaches down for his phone, calmly sliding it from his pocket and drawing up Alana's number. For a single moment, Hannibal considers denying Will this request. Then he sighs, breathes in a breath of the cold air, and connects the call, lifting his phone to his ear. It takes long seconds for the call to connect; it  _is_ half-past midnight. Yet when the dull click of the other end of the line sounds, Hannibal knows immediately that if Alana doesn't know, she at least suspects.

There's a telling pause, before her soft, "Hello? Hannibal? It's... it's late. Are you alright?"

Brave Dr. Bloom, doing as she can to save face. Hannibal feels a small pang of admiration.

"Good evening, Alana. You will have to forgive my discourtesy, but there is something I wished to speak with you about that I'm afraid could not wait for morning."

* * *

Jealousy is an ugly emotion. Will knows Alana doesn't deserve this kind of treatment, but he won't take his request back. He can't. This is him embracing a darker nature of his, one that Hannibal has fanned the flames of for so very long. If Will can't have anyone else in his life, Hannibal can't either. All ties must be broken, a house of cards tumbling down around both of them. Leaving together is a betrayal toward both Jack and Alana.

He imagines, in another version of reality, the four of them sitting together at Hannibal's table. As friends, as colleagues, being wined and dined by their ever gracious smiling host. But facades aren't meant to last. They each have been dinner guests (some more so than others), and yet no one but Will had  _seen_. They might as well have all been wearing blindfolds tied on by Hannibal himself. Still, there's frustration and anger at his friends doubting him. At justice failing him. After all, the truth hadn't set him free,  _Hannibal_ had decided when he'd be released.

And the Will Graham who had left the BSHCI wasn't the same Will Graham that had gone in. How could it be? He'd gained a bullet hole courtesy of Jack and had his name dragged through the papers. He'd lost everything and what had been given back had been in tatters. It had been laughable to think that he could go back and live what had been a version of 'normal life.' Nothing would be the same. The injection of Hannibal Lecter into his life had been a cataclysmic event which brought forth an extinction of who he used to be.

It's time to say hello to the new Will Graham.

Hannibal doesn't look pleased at his order, for there’s no other way to look at it; it certainly hadn't been a request. And still, the noose tightens as Hannibal signals to pull off the road and Will feels vindicated as ever. The word 'necessary' makes Will want to snort. A great deal of many things weren't necessary. Killing Abigail hadn't been necessary and that hadn't stopped Hannibal. But this is necessary for Will. He will show Hannibal that he, too, can be cruel. He will cut out his lingering sentimentality toward Alana Bloom.

And then he would choose Hannibal.

He gestures to the front of the car. He'll make his own theatrical scene of Hannibal confessing. It wouldn't be under the lights in an interrogation room, but he'd be illuminated by his car whilst surrounded by darkness. It's reckless, sure. She knows about Freddie, about Jack and his plan, but he doesn't care. Will's face gives away nothing and eventually Hannibal gives in and reaches for his cell anyway and exits the Bentley. Will takes a deep breath, pulling out his gun and placing it on the dash while he slips out of his coat, not wanting so many layers on. He wants to be chilled completely, inside and out.

He grabs his gun. He leaves the car and strolls around to the front. Hannibal has the phone cradled to the side of his face. Will walks over to him, pressing into his space, into his body like he had thought of doing earlier. He wraps his arms around Hannibal, gun digging into the doctor's lower back. Will rests his chin on Hannibal's other shoulder bringing his mouth to Hannibal's ear.

"Tell her it's me, tell her it's always been me," Will whispers, but it might be more of a hiss actually.

Hannibal is firm in his arms. Masculine. Dangerous. Will can feel the knife against his thigh and he shifts, purposefully positioning his crotch over it and rubbing against the hard object. It's shameless. It's perverted. (It's everything Hannibal threatens to make him feel at times.)

* * *

The stage has been set, the roles cast, and while Hannibal doesn't particularly enjoy this scene, this is an opportunity he's not blind enough to pass up. There are many reasons why Will could be asking this of him, but sometimes the simplest reasons are the ones that make the most sense. Hannibal currently has Alana Bloom, a woman Will has long lusted after. He has held her close, shared her secrets, whispered words in the dark to willing ears, and has had her in ways Will had ached to. While Hannibal respects this woman in a sense, despite her recklessness (firing a gun; Hannibal still has her bullets in his pocket from the moment she'd stopped at his home earlier) she does not hold a candle to Will Graham, and as the chill on the air once again threatens to seep into Hannibal's bones, he simply draws his coat tighter around himself and wonders if he tastes an actual storm on the air or if this moment is simply that charged.

She's quiet, clearly weighing her response, but after a moment Hannibal can hear the soft creak of her unfortunate bedspread. He closes his eyes and listens as fabric rustles over the line, and he can almost smell the soft mint of her scent and the freshness of her fabric softener. She's undoubtedly wearing her favorite robe, and Hannibal merely breathes in absolute silence as he waits. He's distantly aware of the sound of his car door opening but he thinks nothing of it. Will was always going to follow.

"There is very little that can't wait for morning, Hannibal," Alana replies, and he has to admire the steadiness in her voice. Perhaps in a way, he will miss her. Of everyone, she has been loyal. Hannibal considers whether or not he would have given her a chance in the end, a reward for said loyalty. He will never know now. "But... of course. Are you... safe?"

Prying questions, professional courtesy. Hannibal allows himself the softest of hums, the sound amusement.

"I would like to think so, yes, though that remains to be--" he begins, thinking of Will and his gun.

Quite suddenly he doesn't  _have_ to simply think of Will Graham and the gun in his hand. Hannibal gives a small start when Will is just suddenly there, pressed along his front. Hannibal's eyes snap open and for a moment the headlights blind him anew, but turning to look at Will from the side - his left cheek so bright it looks uncolored and his right in darkness impossible to see - wields more favorable results. He's about to ask what Will is doing, about to politely ask Alana to wait (for she has already made a small sound of concern and repeated his name once) but Hannibal's attention is caught.

The gun catches his attention first, for its outline is hard and uncomfortable against the small of his back. Will's arms are second, for he has them wrapped around Hannibal, his grip tighter and firmer as he leans in to nearly nestle his head against Hannibal's shoulder. The positioning is blatant. Third is Will himself, for as Hannibal's eyes adjust to the light from the headlights, he realizes that Will is not dressed in baggy red plaid or loose-fit jeans. His shirt is crisp and blue, the collar so straight that it looks nearly pressed, and his pants are fitted and smart. Hannibal gives Will a single appreciative look, wondering in the back of his mind if this, too, is a manipulation, but the gun is still the most pressing matter. Or it is... until Will's voice catches his attention, drowning out Alana's voice as she again says his name, less certain this time.

Hannibal stills. In the cold, his fingers tighten on his phone and he merely looks at Will in silence. He has never claimed that Alana's favor had been nothing more than a substitute. Will has no way of  _knowing_ that Hannibal had always been drawn to him, and yet the statement is true. Hannibal's fingers are frozen in the chill of the air and as he stands there, bathed in the light from the headlights, cold, but warmed by Will's heat, he feels the first cold drop of water against his cheek. It's startling but unsurprising; he'd scented the rain earlier, but apparently this particular storm has decided to come earlier. No, what is surprising is Will's words, but also his actions.

There is no way to disguise the sudden purposeful roll of his hips. Hannibal's breath catches audibly and Alana goes silent on the other end of the line, waiting. As stunned as Hannibal is that this is happening, heat tears through him with such pointed viciousness that it leaves him breathless. It doesn't escape his notice that Will is rubbing against the knife. Hannibal wets his lips. Reckless indeed. His hand slowly, tentatively settles itself on Will's side.

"I am as safe as I can be, yes," Hannibal finally says. "Given the circumstances."

"Circumstances? Is..." Alana quiets for a moment. "Is someone there?"

"Yes. Will is with me."

He listens to Alana's sudden sound, clipped, and to her credit, she doesn't demand what he's done with Will. He gives her silent credit for that.

"Hannibal... I... I don't believe that's a good idea. Will has been..." She trails off. "Will isn't stable right now. He's... things are complicated."

"They are." Hannibal glances sidelong at the man in question, at his slicked-back hair and the artful cut to his stubble. Will smells clean and raw, there is no way to mistake the slow roll of his hips. Hannibal is stunned, thrown by this development, but there is no part of him that protests. Even the press of Will's gun slides heat through him. Would he... no. No, Will wouldn't kill him. Not now that he is interesting.

"I felt I owed you the courtesy to be upfront, Alana. I have no desire to keep you guessing. I'm aware that something has been stressing this relationship," Will, her suspicion of them, Jack, perhaps much more. "I'm ending it. We no longer need each other the way we did during Will's incarceration. I feel this is... clean."

There is a stunned silence to follow. Clearly of everything, Alana hadn't expected this. She seems to stumble over her concern for Hannibal and this new blow, but when she speaks, her voice is at least mostly steady.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Does... are you in trouble? Say 'yes' if you are."

"No." Hannibal's tone is as warm as it can be given this chill in the air. "No, I'm not. I am merely sparing you the trouble." He doesn't elaborate on what this trouble  _is_ , but it should be evident: He knows. He also carefully, pointedly, does  _not_ repeat what Will had said. At present, it seems almost petty despite its truth. Hannibal keeps his gaze on Will the whole time.

* * *

Eventually Hannibal's other hand settles on Will's waist. Will considers it a victory for he's not pushed away nor is his lewd grinding stopped. It's both encouraging and exhilarating. Blood rushes south, Will getting hard from his own doing. He's not bothered by it. Although, Will figures his arousal isn't just a physical response. No, gun out, held firmly in his hand and Hannibal essentially  _obeying_ him? It's a thrill. There's no other word for it and it's definitely something Will could get used to.

In the beginning, there had always been a power differential in their relationship. Doctor and patient. Killer and naive special investigator. Betrayer and betrayed. The tables are turning and likely Hannibal is curious about this new Will Graham making an appearance. Dressed a little better, free of his aftershave and equally bold and reckless - it's a treat for Hannibal. He  _is_ a good fisherman and he's equally able to be an attractive lure. It's these qualities that will help Will ensnare Hannibal even more.

Listening to a one sided conversation isn't rewarding, but it's too late to tell Hannibal to put Alana on speaker phone. From Hannibal's responses, it sounds like she's worried for him. Yes, she has good cause to be concerned, but it's still laughable. When Hannibal confesses who he is with, Will's hips stutter a bit in their actions.

He's primed and waiting, waiting for Hannibal to deliver the truth, to rip the blindfold off of Alana completely... but it never comes.

Hannibal is a gentleman about the breakup, citing that they no longer 'need' each other. It's concise, yes, but still maddeningly polite.  _Clean_. That too. Frustration scorches through Will. His hips stop and he unwraps his arms from Hannibal's torso. Will is glaring as he takes a small step back and points the gun at Hannibal's forehead. He goes further, his other hand roughly pushing at Hannibal's shoulder, indicating that he wants Hannibal to go to his knees.

 _Down, boy_. Hannibal complies. Will flicks off the safety.

It would be easy to shoot Hannibal right now, to splatter his brains and blood against the fancy car and have Alana at least hear her lover's demise. Will licks his lips and his eyes don't leave Hannibal's. It's started to rain softly. It's suiting, adding to the theatrics. His free hand grabs Hannibal's hair tightly, and Will steps close again rubbing evidence of his arousal against the side of Hannibal's face.

Will snatches the cell away and brings it his own face. "Hello Alana," he says in a greeting, a little breathless. He's looking down at Hannibal. Hannibal who is on his knees, Hannibal whose mouth is so close to his dick...

"Will. Where are you two?" He can hear her trepidation, the slight quiver in her voice that she's trying to keep contained. It's quite lovely.

"Don't worry about that," Will answers quickly. "Hannibal neglected to tell you the complete truth, but don't worry, I'll clear it up for you."

Gun still pointed at Hannibal, Will's hips pull back and he drops his grip on hair to instead fumble with the button and zipper on his dress pants. Will wins and spares no time in whipping out his half-hard cock and placing it against Hannibal's closed mouth.

His eyes are bright and Will hisses, "Suck it."

This is daring. This is beyond reckless. Will should know better, but he won't stop. Can't stop.

"Will, whatever game you're playing--"

"I'm not playing at anything. Not anymore."

* * *

Curious. Always curious about what might happen. Hannibal makes his decision knowingly, denying Will the satisfaction of Alana knowing the absolute truth - that it has always been Will Graham. Alana had been a colleague, a placeholder for companionship Hannibal had truly craved. Now that Will is finally within his grasp, now that he has made his choice and chosen  _Hannibal_ , now that he is pressed so close, rubbing himself blatantly against Hannibal's hip, he hardly hears Alana's concerns anymore. Hannibal's attention is caught, his eyes on Will as the rain begins to fall a little faster, small droplets falling, hardly big enough to bend the grass. He's aware of the chill in the air, but Will's heat seems far more poignant. Yet despite it all Hannibal cannot ignore the small impulse to push Will's hand. He has no desire to be petty, to hasten Alana's hand. Telling her will do nothing but fuel Will's ego, and Hannibal cannot deny being curious to see what will happen if  _this_ Will Graham is denied.

He is entirely unprepared for the reaction. The Will Graham of a few weeks ago would have resisted, would have snapped but kept his head down, a good dog, not wishing to rock the boat.  _This_ Will Graham stills and his sudden frustration is palpable. He steps back and Hannibal watches him silently, but it isn't until Will's hand lifts and Hannibal catches a glint of something metallic near his head that he stills. The headlights from his Bentley reflect off of the  _gun_ held to his forehead and Hannibal's breathing slows; he finds himself wondering just how... stable this Will Graham is. The tension bleeds between them, Will's expression dark and Hannibal's carefully guarded. It frays and stretches between them until something must surely snap, but neither of them say or do a thing until Will reaches out and sets a very forceful hand on Hannibal's shoulder. He pushes, and the implication is clear.  _Down_.

Hannibal resists, caught between curiosity and self-preservation. Is this man one who desires control, or is he one who aches to execute him while he's on his knees? There's no hint in Will's posture. Silence reigns again for a few pointed seconds and then Hannibal lets out a soft breath, eyes not leaving Will's. Moving his free hand to one knee, Hannibal braces himself as he slowly lowers himself onto the cold asphalt, rough against his knees. It's indignity at its finest, and he's rewarded with the pointed  _click_ of the safety of the gun flicking off. Unbidden, he flinches, leaning away ever so slightly; it's the moment in the kitchen all over again, save this time Hannibal doesn't look away. He holds Will's gaze and despite the twist of thrilling dread in his gut, he finds himself caught and awed at the sheer  _power_ in Will's stance. He catches the flick of Will's tongue a second before Will's hand suddenly buries in his hair, and Hannibal muffles a small sound that has Alana hesitantly voicing her concern over the phone. Hannibal doesn't hear her.

Will presses his clothed arousal to Hannibal's cheek and the sensation is both belittling and heady. It's dominance, and before Hannibal can decide what he wishes to do - for he suddenly believes he knows  _where_ this is going - the phone is taken from his hand. It's  _rude_ , and his expression begins to harden, but this close, Will's scent is powerful and his fingers are caught, tight and cruel in Hannibal's hair. The gun is an added threat, an added thrill, and as Hannibal looks up at him and Will begins to speak with Alana, he's less surprised than he should be when Will's fingers leave his hair. Hannibal watches, silent, hardly daring to breathe as Will undoes his dress pants. It takes him only a few seconds to pull his cock - already half-hard - from his pants, and Hannibal breathes in sharply, dragging his gaze from Will's eyes down to what he clearly wants and then back again.

If there had been any confusion, Will's hissed command clears it all up. Hannibal swallows, breathing in a deep breath of Will's scent and the soft, muted sweetness indicative of a light rain. There are many reasons to resist. Alana is on top of the list, but Hannibal cares very little about her at this point. Not with the pavement rough under his knees, the chill in the air, the rain falling, and Will standing tall and  _powerful_ before him. He's stunning like this. Hannibal looks up at Will, meeting his eyes. At this point, they're both beyond reckless.

Aware of the knife still in his pocket, Hannibal lifts his hands to press against Will's thighs, only touching to draw him closer. Will's heat is burning against his mouth (for he'd not asked; Will had merely pressed blatantly against him) and Hannibal finally, obediently parts his lips. Will is only half-hard, but it's perhaps more thrilling like this, for Hannibal gets to be directly responsible for his desire. 

He leans in and lips at the head of Will's cock, tongue tracing over it to acclimate himself to the taste and heat and weight. Hannibal had entertained thoughts such as these before; his desire for Will doesn't stop at his mind or his presence. Will is not an unattractive man. He's stunning, his features strong but delicate, his body fit and attractive. Hannibal had merely never assumed this would be  _permitted_ much less insisted upon. He breathes a soft sound, unbidden, caught up in the vicious thrill as he carefully licks and teases, gently rubbing his lips over heated skin and following each pass with his tongue.

Alana is a distant concern, but his focus is not on the phone. It's on this new closeness and the danger of the gun at his head.

"The gun is not necessary, Will," Hannibal breathes against his skin.

* * *

Hannibal on his knees, on the road, a dick in his face and a gun to his temple - the entire image is obscene and scandalous. For a man like Hannibal, who considers manners and appearances essential, it almost seems borderline sacrilegious. No doubt Hannibal has never done anything like this before. It goes without saying. Will would have never believed the story if it had been told to him, but here he is, experiencing it first hand. Involved in it and  _causing_ it. Control and power blend with arousal - a mix Will has never sampled before (save for empathizing with a few sexual sadists). It's a high he wants to keep on chasing.

Will's pulled a gun on Hannibal before, a quick stand-off in the good doctor's kitchen after he'd been freed (not declared sane, mind you). He'd witnessed Hannibal flinch then too, turning his head away even, an act permeated in a kind of submission. Will had liked seeing that brief uncertainty, but looking back, Will thinks some of it had been an act. The Hannibal before him now appears intrigued, but not entirely submissive. Not beaten down in the least bit. Hannibal is much too proud of a man for that. Will may have a gun, but Hannibal Lecter has  _allowed_ things to progress to this point. Will  _pushes_ and Hannibal  _allows_. Will knows this.

Their eyes are locked onto each other's and when that mouth does indeed open for him, Will shakes with anticipation. A part of his brain is lagging behind, still shocked that he'd even called Hannibal in the first place let alone packed a bag and is in the process of running away with him. It makes no sense. Maybe he really is crazy, but within the madness of it all, Will feels so  _alive_. Letting go grants him both control and freedom.

The attention his cock receives is a tease, a hot tongue contrasting with the chill in the night air. It's still an introduction that Will wants to be completely present for and he doesn't direct his eyes away from Hannibal. The hand gripping the gun moves atop the Hannibal's head, resting the weapon there and curling into the longer strands of hair. Sure, the gun isn't necessary (the way Hannibal is licking and rubbing his lips against him demonstrates his willingness), but it's more exciting this way. Will shakes his head at Hannibal - he's not putting it away.

"Will? Are you still there?"

Alana's concerned voice draws him back to the moment and Will exhales a shaky breath.

"Hannibal never loved you, Alana," Will begins, voice slightly stained from the antsy pleasure Hannibal's teasing is bringing out. Will yanks on damp hair, other hand clutching the phone tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. The rain comes down harder on them, causing Will's shirt to be weighed down and stick to his skin.

"He took you because he  _could_ and because  _I_ wanted you, but you were just a placeholder."

"Will, where is this coming from?" He hears confusion and hurt, but also a hint of a realization that Alana's resistant to accept. (She will.)

"It's always been me," Will continues, head tilting to the side to hold the phone against his shoulder. His now free hand reaches out to stroke along Hannibal's wet face, his fingertips gentle across a sharp cheekbone.

"He loves me. He's on his knees for me right now, too..." It feels far too delightful to say it out loud. Will moves his hand into Hannibal's hair, gripping hard, as he impatiently pushes his cock into the mouth that has been teasing for far too long. He gasps audibly at the sensation. It's hot and wet and perfect.

"You're not making any sense. Whatever you're planning--"

He interrupts her, "He's mine. No one else can have him. You can tell Jack that too."  To emphasize the point, Will thrusts deeper, likely gagging Hannibal in the process. A satisfied groan follows.

"Will--"

"Goodbye Alana." Will let's the phone fall to the asphalt, not worried about disconnecting the call in the least. Fully aroused, all he's focused on is finding pleasure in Hannibal's mouth.

* * *

How many times had Hannibal thought about this? Far too many to count. He had entertained thoughts of making his intentions known - a thrill in and of itself, for Hannibal is often above his desires for sex and intimacy - of taking Will to bed. With Ingram begging on his knees and Will knowingly pulling the trigger, the hammer caught swiftly by little more than Hannibal's thumb, he had been swept up in the desire to move closer, to do more than simply touch Will's face. With Tier a bloodied, beaten offering on his table, desire had curled through him like smoke, overshadowed simply by his awe that Will had knowingly killed his offering and brought it back for him.

He had once wished to take Will to his bed, to carefully strip him down and learn him as intimately as it was possible to know another, and beyond. At the time, he'd nearly scoffed at his own desires, caught between the sweetness of arousal and the frustration that he was normally  _above_ such wistfulness.

He is not above it now. The weight of rain begins to increase around them and Hannibal is distantly aware that they are achingly exposed like this. He's kneeling before the headlights of his car, the dark even darker around them for the lights blind him to anything else but this, Will standing in front of him, his cock pressed close and insistently to Hannibal's lips. Earlier in the evening, he had ached to be blind, to not know what he'd known. This is a different meaning, perhaps, but being blinded and focusing entirely on the sight of Will before him is not unpleasant.

He licks and teases, his breath hot in contrast to the cold air. Yet despite this, a thrill races through him as he feels Will hardening against his lips, his tongue. Heat tears through him like claws, viciously-poised, and when the gun rests atop his head (close and dangerous and  _good_ ) and Will's fingers half-tangle in his hair, Hannibal shivers and lets out a soft groan, unbidden. Above him, Will shakes his head; the gun isn't moving. Hannibal nods only once.

Alana must say something then, for Will's attention is caught. Like this, unable to hear the conversation, Hannibal focuses on the feeling of Will's heat against his lips. He mouths carefully at the head of his cock, curling his tongue around the glans and lightly  _hinting_ at suction that he passes over in favor of teasing Will into hardness his own way. Like this, hair slowly growing damp, knees wet against the asphalt, the chill sharp as the rain is cold, the reality of what he's doing actually begins to settle in. The reality of what Will is  _making_ him do. (Though he knows that despite the gun, were he to not wish this, he would stop it. This is only being allowed because Hannibal is achingly curious and because he wants it as badly as Will does.) Just as the thrill begins to wrench through him anew, Will's voice sounds, and Hannibal's gaze snaps back up to him, prompted by the tug to his hair that has sharp sensation settling low in his stomach.

' _It's always been me.'_

Hannibal lets out an unsteady exhale, caught, for Will is correct. He wonders if Will is using his empathy, or if he's simply  _known_ this whole time. Either way, Hannibal willingly leans into Will's touch when his free hand comes down to play across his cheek. The rain is steady now, and Will is a vision, his clothes sticking sharply to all the hard angles of his body, his hair dark and shining from the headlights.

' _He loves me.'_

Hannibal closes his eyes only for a moment, a soft breath escaping him. He does. Curse the word, for even now he resents it, but he does love this broken, manipulative, frustrating creature.

' _He's on his knees for me right now...'_

Hannibal's eyes snap open and he looks up at Will sharply, a curl of arousal sliding hotly through him, though it clashes with indignity that he has  _told_ Alana. Before he can decide how to proceed, the hand that had been gently sliding over his cheek moves up and Hannibal lets out a strangled little groan as it curls hard in his hair.

Will's touch is surprising enough. His impatience goes beyond even that. For suddenly he doesn't give Hannibal a choice; one moment he is content to allow him to tease, and the next he's gifted with Will's cock pushing insistently into his mouth. Hannibal's hands clench in the fabric of Will's slacks and it's only the sudden sharp gasp from above that placates his indignation. Hannibal struggles only for a moment - for he has not done this before - but he quickly adjusts, pressing his tongue to the throbbing underside of Will's cock and closing his lips around it to suck.

It's sensation on another level, thick, heady, and hot. He groans softly, arousal twisting hot and heavy through his own body. Despite the cold rain, he's growing hard. Will's grip is tight in his hair, the gun a solid weight of reminder, and Hannibal takes him in as deeply as he dares, attempting to adjust to something so visceral.

The soft interjection, Will's voice breathless on,  _'he's mine,_ ' is enough to send heat crashing through him, but impatience on Will's part wins out in the end.

He thrusts in deeper, his cock pushing rough and insistently past what is comfortable, and Hannibal's grip on Will's thighs tightens suddenly. His body fights and Hannibal gags, moisture springing unbidden to his eyes as he attempts to move back, but Will's grip is tight in his hair, keeping him precisely where he wants. For a single moment, Hannibal considers the knife in his pocket, considers punishing this reckless man for  _daring_... but he doesn't.

The sensation of  _too much_ races through him hotly, and while Hannibal struggles and chokes for a few moments, he soon figures out that giving in to it, that swallowing around Will's cock to take him in deep lessens the force. He drags in breath through his nose and, shivering, his hands so tight on Will's thighs that bruises will undoubtedly be left behind, he does as Will is demanding. Taking a large breath in through his nose, Hannibal takes him in deep, swallowing and caught on sensation.

He hardly notices the rain anymore, and doesn't notice when the phone falls between them, the call still connected and Alana's voice raising, tinny and soft, in an attempt to catch their attention anew. All he focuses on is Will as he looks up at him, one eye closed and the other winced in discomfort, but he refuses to look away now. Not as he struggles to move back, sucking wetly and messily at the perfect weight in his mouth. 

* * *

Unlike Hannibal, Will  _hasn't_ thought about this. He's straight. He's always been straight. He's never viewed men in a romantic or sexual light before - after all, women were difficult enough. Will doesn't have a problem with it, it just isn't how he's wired... But it's easy enough to let himself be reckless, to explore and experiment with Hannibal. They have, much to Will's dismay, a rapport involving physical touch too. From early on, Hannibal has been grooming him, asserting himself into Will's personal bubble, standing close, giving him reassuring touches, cupping his face... Will normally wouldn't have allowed that kind of thing to fly, but maybe a part of him liked the boldness, liked someone reaching out and making an effort despite his prickly demeanor. (Maybe he'd been a little touch starved, a little lonely...) Whatever the reason, it makes  _this_ easier now.

Having no evidence to the contrary, Will had simply assumed Hannibal was straight. Not that it really mattered. He'd never cared or asked much about Hannibal's personal or romantic life - he'd always had enough debris in his own mind to sift through while they talked. While they hadn't exactly been the typical doctor and patient, they hadn't really been friends either. Even if one cut out the lies and betrayal, it had always been a pretty one sided friendship if anything - Hannibal making himself available to offer an ear to listen, or breakfast, while Will had grabbed it all up, all too relieved to have a giving friend who accepted him.

His rudeness isn't met with teeth biting down on his dick or Hannibal pulling away. Hannibal struggles with the sudden intrusion (which is more than understandable), sputtering a bit, but ultimately  _allowing_ this, too. It's another power trip, exciting and dragging out a breathy moan from Will. He's noticed that the hair pulling has elicited a vocal response from Hannibal, so while he thrusts into the welcoming heat, Will yanks on now wet hair.

"Your lips look so good wrapped around my dick," Will suddenly asserts, voice rough with pleasure. He's unsure if he's aiming to try and embarrass Hannibal or what, but essentially this is dirty talk. "I like your mouth better when it's full of me... You like it? Like sucking me off, Hannibal? Because you're -  _ahh_ \- doing a good job of it."

Apparently Will doesn't care why he's talking. Maybe he gets off on it, saying perverse things to a man like Hannibal who likely would never say anything remotely similar in the bedroom. Maybe part of it is even for Alana.

The rain is cool, adding to the night chill and contrasting with the wet heat of Hannibal's mouth. Will feels his impending orgasm building up, he doesn't want to come this quickly, but fuck, the situation is far too arousing - Hannibal on his knees, Hannibal taking it, Alana listening, the possibility of a car driving past - and when Will's hips stutter, thrusting in one last time, pleasure bursts through him, muscles quivering with the intensity of his climax as his cock spurts into Hannibal's throat. He's hissing out an expletive, petting Hannibal's hair with the hand not holding the gun and shaking slightly.

To date, it's the best orgasm of his life, but he's not going to tell Hannibal that.

* * *

The insistent press of Will's cock in his throat is bordering on overwhelming, nearly dangerous. It's intense in a way that the two of them have rarely reached before. Intensity has never been absent in the moments Hannibal has shared with Will in the past. They've never made a point to shy away from difficult topics, or intense feelings. Betrayal, darkness, insanity, murder, power, and now sex. As Hannibal struggles to adjust to Will's rough, rude intrusion, a deep, sick thrill twists through him, not unlike the same thrill that had slid through him as Matthew Brown had slit his wrists in Will's name. Power.  _Will's_ power, is what it is. The only differences between then and now are simple to name but they change everything: intimacy and arousal. While the sick twist of near-empathetic vindication and pleasure are the same, the  _type_ of pleasure is not. With Matthew Brown, Hannibal had been viciously proud, floating on endorphin and satisfaction. It hadn't been sexual. This, though it shouldn't come as a surprise given what Will is doing,  _is_.

Will's fingers grip tight in his hair and Hannibal chokes on a soft sound (that would undoubtedly be louder were circumstances different), his fingers gripping tighter on Will's thighs as he leans up. He's given a few seconds to compensate, to quickly decide how best to tackle Will's impulsiveness, and then Will's hips draw back just enough to gift him much-needed air before pushing back in. Despite Hannibal's clear struggle, Will is not gentle. His fingers are tight in Hannibal's wet hair, his cock thick and hot, heavy on his tongue and in his throat. Hannibal digs his fingers against Will's thighs but does nothing to stop this. It takes a few thrusts, a few seconds of Will blatantly seeking his own pleasure with little thought to the man on his knees, but Hannibal eventually finds a proper angle. He breathes in deep, surrounded by Will's scent, by his power, and though his throat aches and the wet, slick sounds of Will thrusting in deep are the picture of undignified, Hannibal still shivers, his entire focus on Will Graham.

Illuminated by the headlights, the rain casting him in harsh light and shadow, Will looks wild and powerful. Hannibal can feel the gun pressed hard to his scalp, a twisted pleasure radiating from the tight grip to his hair and the ache to his throat. He has never been a man turned on by degradation, yet he cannot deny a powerful ache as Will speaks. His voice is low and rough, audible proof of his pleasure.

The words are half-praise and half-insulting and the mix has him clawing his nails against Will's slacks. The knife is ever more tempting. Impudent boy; Hannibal aches for a moment to push back, to free himself and shove his knife against Will's throat and remind him  _who_ he has chosen. Yet before his hand so much as moves for his pocket, he's surprised by the thrill of arousal as Will thrusts deeper, grips tighter, his voice broken and breathless, telling him he's doing a good job. The visceral nature of the act coupled with Will's praise and the desperation etched into every line of his body is powerful. Despite the cold rain punctuating this encounter and the distant tinny sound of Alana on the phone, Hannibal's slacks are tight, his cock hard and hips shifting against the wet slide of fabric.

The sound of pounding rain soon drowns out the tinny sound from the phone, but not Will's voice. Not his moans, his hitched sighs, the rough grunts as he curls his fingers in Hannibal's hair and  _takes_ what he needs. By the time Will's breathing is rough and ragged, Hannibal has found a rhythm. He sucks hard and relaxes his throat, breathing only when he can quickly drag air in between thrusts. It's messy and inelegant but it's  _good_. The ache in his throat is almost addictive, Hannibal drawing Will in closer, encouraging.

He distantly notices when Will's rhythm falters, hastening to adjust lest he start to choke again, and Hannibal looks up at him, watching, and is completely unprepared for Will suddenly grabbing him closer, cursing sharply under his breath, and shoving in deep, coming down his throat. Hannibal tenses, a small, urgent sound escaping him, for  _warning_ would have been polite. He's caught for a moment, indecisive, but Will hasn't given him a choice. It's swallow or choke, and so Hannibal grabs his hands tight on Will's thighs and takes him in deep, swallowing around his cock as Will's fingers trail through his hair, almost gentle.

Hannibal remains exactly where he is for as long as he can manage, but when he can no longer hold his breath, he braces his hands on Will's thighs and wrenches himself back, hand in his hair be damned. He coughs once and then drags in a rough, deep breath to cough again, hand on Will's thigh, brow furrowed in annoyance. He swallows a few times until he feels it's safe, and then allows himself to sit back on his heels, breathing hard as he glares up at Will.

"Warning would have been courteous, Will," he says, or... tries to. His voice, when it comes out, is rough and wet and raw. He  _sounds_ wrecked and it's clear that Hannibal realizes this too if the little grimace of displeasure is any indication.

* * *

He may be rough around the edges, but Will normally isn't this  _rude._ He's not normally fucking his partner's face or giving them no warning when he's about to come. This isn't like him. Well. It wasn't the  _old_ Will Graham. The new Will Graham? Maybe this  _is_ him. Maybe this is a part of his design, what's emerging from the chrysalis as it were. He doesn't feel beautiful, though. Nor delicate like a butterfly. Will Graham is a moth, nocturnal and more muted. But he wouldn't allow Hannibal to catch him, wouldn't have his wings spread and pinned. He wouldn't be fucking mounted and a part of a collection with a handwritten identification tag underneath him. If anything, Hannibal is  _his_ prey.  _His_ catch. But until the situation is right, until he's backed into a corner and trapped, they'll both be wild and feral things. Together.

Hannibal has no choice but to swallow, so he does. Will pants and blinks profusely, head tilting back and letting the rain fall directly on his face as he comes down. He almost feels like he's slipping out of himself, or at least his concerns, his morals, his  _reason..._ They're being washed away like a sheen of sticky sweat off his skin after a nightmare. What rushes in to fill the empty spaces? Anger. Betrayal. Bitterness. Recklessness. Direction. An urge to hurt. To manipulate. (An  _ache...?_ ) It's all poison, surely. Slow acting, but it's going to burn through Will's veins as his blood circulates and he'll certainly be worse in the end.

(There's no other end for him. This is what Will believes.)

Hannibal eventually jerks away and Will glances down at him. He's met with a glare. For the first time, Will thinks Hannibal is devastatingly beautiful - disheveled wet hair, flushed cheeks, swollen lips and pissed off, although he's, somehow, still attempting to maintain a measure of composure about the whole thing.

His voice, though... Will licks his lips and tucks his spit-slick cock back into boxers and does up his slacks. Will crouches down in front of Hannibal, placing the gun by his feet as he reaches for the cellphone. He shows the screen to Hannibal, the call still going on, Alana repeating their names in distress before he ends it with a Cheshire Cat smile. She likely heard the whole thing. It was a marvelous performance, really. Five out of five stars.

It's then he notices that Hannibal is actually sporting a rather noticeable erection. Will's eyebrows draw in, momentarily confused by the sight. A beat later, he laughs softly. This is  _too_ good to be true...

"You got turned on blowing me," Will points out, incredulous. "You  _are_ a kinky bastard, aren't you?"

* * *

Hannibal's grimace only deepens when Will looks down at him, licking the rain from his lips in a way that looks far too fetching for how irritated Hannibal finds himself. In the quiet moments of introspection when Hannibal had allowed himself to be indulgent enough to think about  _having_ Will Graham, it had not gone like this. He had not been on his knees, Will had not had the power, and Hannibal had not been the one left panting and raw. It is an uncomfortable realization, and he is perhaps more irritated that were Will to  _ask_ for this again, he would... likely acquiesce.

This isn't the way he'd imagined anything happening between them, and yet given what he knows, given the way Will has stabbed a knife in his back but carefully eased it out, this makes sense. Will's betrayal - his knife - is still bloodied, and he isn't apologetic, but he's still made his choice. He won't regret stabbing Hannibal in the back, and he won't reach over to help, but he will stay with him and watch him struggle to piece himself back together.

It's cruel and cold and manipulative, and through the pounding rain and twist of visceral anger Hannibal feels, knelt on the asphalt, knees sore and chilled, he cannot deny his  _pride_. His glare softens into something contemplative, and Hannibal finally takes his hand back as Will slowly tucks himself back into his slacks. He lifts a hand to his throat and then higher, over his mouth. Hannibal coughs again, taking a second to try and clear his throat as softly as he can, for it aches and the raw, stretched sensation remains.

Swallowing, he looks over at Will, expression mild and irritated, but before he opens his mouth to speak again, he watches as Will slowly crouches to the ground and reaches down. Hannibal follows his gaze.

His cell phone is on the ground and for one jarring second, Hannibal realizes he'd  _forgotten_. The screen is still glowing - having been eclipsed by the headlights - and Hannibal stills. He doesn't need Will to hold the phone up to realize the call is still connected; even upside-down, he can see Alana's contact. Slowly his lips press together and thin, and Hannibal feels a fresh swell of indignation burn within; Will had been speaking for a  _reason_ , it seems. Something that is confirmed as Will holds the phone up to him with a wide grin that is all teeth. Audacious, impudent wretch...

The call ends and the screen goes dark and Hannibal's jaw sets tightly. Will had been working toward a goal, then. A performance. Ownership, perhaps. It's flattering in a sense, knowing that Will had been petulant enough to insist upon flaunting this in Alana's face. Still breathing hard, Hannibal wets his lips and licks some of the rain from them in the process, leveling Will with a hard stare, as cold as the surrounding asphalt. Yet just as he opens his mouth to comment, Will goes still. He looks almost confused, and then immediately laughs, and Hannibal is curious for only a moment before Will's comment drags him back to the present.

He doesn't look down; he hardly needs to. He's well aware that he's aroused, but Will's comment is enough to curl his lip slightly. Hannibal is not a man easily humiliated, and despite the attempt, he merely levels Will with a look and then pointedly sits back on his heels, legs moving to brace himself. It stretches the fabric of his slacks lewdly over his cock, but Hannibal's expression is set in stone. He slides his hands back subtly and sets his wrist over the knife in his pocket. Yet with his free one, he presses it to his thigh, bordering on blatant, and he eases his hips into the touch. He's not touching himself directly; he doesn't have to. His shamelessness is not to pleasure himself.

It's to serve as a distraction as he fishes the knife from his pocket, flips the blade up, and strikes like a snake. To his credit, the injury isn't deep. It's a warning. But the knife slices quickly and cleanly over Will's cheek, almost artfully along the line of bone, hidden by his beard. It highlights the shape of Will's face, drawing attention to the delicate features. Blood wells under the knife and Hannibal keeps his hand exactly where it is, making no move to grab the gun in front of him on the ground. He doesn't smile, but the satisfaction is clear in his eyes.

"Yes," he says slowly, though his voice is still rough and ragged, "as depraved as you seem to be, Will. Putting a gun to someone's head in order to hold power over them, and finding sexual pleasure in it... And me, finding pleasure in the intimacy and the thrill. Yes. We are just alike..."

* * *

From the expression on Hannibal's face it would appear that he had momentarily forgotten about their sole audience member. To have Hannibal out of his element, to have the puppet master caught off guard and not pulling the strings for once, delights Will. It's an experience Will can surely do with more of. Hannibal had held the power for so long. He'd had months playing the somewhat bland psychiatrist-friend, pretending to help Will, but all the while, behind the scenes, playing with Will like a toy, winding the monkey up and watching him bash the cymbals together like an idiot. _Clang, clang, clang_. Will Graham isn't going to be the fool anymore.

His comments, surprisingly, only have Hannibal giving him a hard, cold stare in return. Will had been expecting some scathing reply, something about how being vulgar is below him. Instead, Hannibal moves in such a way that it only accentuates his clothed hard-on. Will's eyes flick downward, curious as to where this is going. Is Hannibal going to actually rub one off, right here, right now? Will's weirdly intrigued by the idea, mostly that it seemed so out of character for the Doctor and he wants to see just how dirty Hannibal  _can_ get.

Hannibal's plan goes off without a hitch for Will  _is_ distracted enough to not notice how he's positioned his hand to snatch out the knife and give him a quick slice. Pain shoots through Will's face, a burning along his jawline and for a moment, he's the monkey with the symbols again, staring back, shocked and immobile. Will blinks, momentarily stunned, but the stinging pain focuses him and he places the phone on the asphalt. The knife is against his cheek and Will gently pulls Hannibal's hand away. He swipes a finger against the cut, rainwater mixes with blood and when he pulls it away, Will can see his tip of his finger coated in a dark red.

_‘As depraved as you seem to be, Will... Yes. We are just alike…'_

The words only encourage him to slip the digit in his mouth and taste his own blood. Bitter. Metallic. But he's got Hannibal's attention.

"If that's the case, should I go to my knees for you too?" He asks, eyes bright and head tilted to the side as he does just that, going from a crouch onto his knees on the wet road, dress pants be damned. He'll show Hannibal just how depraved he can really be.

"Should I suck something, too?" Will picks up the gun and brings the barrel close to his mouth. "I know you said guns lack intimacy, but I'm pretty sure I can change your mind."

Will does just that, opening his mouth as he licks blatantly around the circular muzzle. His tongue flicks inside before he widens his mouth and wraps his lips around the barrel of the gun and sucks lewdly for Hannibal. He could squeeze the trigger and blow his brains out. End this all. End himself. Have the curtains close. It would certainly hurt Hannibal, but...

Instead, he slides his mouth back and forth on the first few inches of the gun, mimicking the activity Hannibal had just been aroused by doing.

* * *

 The look of shock on Will's face is pure vindication. Hannibal doesn't dig the knife in harder than he needs to in order to make his point, but he doesn't spare Will the blade either. Around them, the world is a torrent of rain, heavy droplets striking the earth and rebounding back up as far as they can. The headlights from the Bentley illuminate the surrounding stretch of road but Hannibal doesn't care.

His gaze is fixed on Will, on the surprise in his eyes and the blood slowly sliding down his cheek. Neither of them say a word. Then, finally, Will lifts a hand and gently eases Hannibal's hand away. Generously, Hannibal allows him to do so. The message is clear. Had Hannibal wished Will dead, he could have killed him easily in that moment. Instead he'd chosen a mild reprimand. As the two of them stay there - Hannibal on his knees and Will carefully crouched - the rain is both spotlight and shroud.

The sight of Will lifting a hand to his cheek settles something in Hannibal's chest, but Will is correct. As Will's bloodied finger slides past his lips, Hannibal's attention is immediately caught. For a moment, Hannibal stills; like this, with adrenaline coursing through them both and Will's arousal satisfied, the intelligent thing to do would be to get up and return to the car. Will's conditions have been fulfilled. Hannibal had called Alana and terminated their relationship - with some extra assistance.

The rain is cold, Will isn't dressed for this weather, and adrenaline is dangerous when two people are in possession of a great amount of anger and weapons. Getting back in the car is the only action that makes any sense. Aroused as Hannibal is, he also knows it can wait. The moment Will had ended the call, their clock had begun to tick.

So when Will makes his suggestion, Hannibal stills once again. Before he can ask, Will is shifting. Hannibal watches as Will braces a hand on the pavement and lowers himself down on the road, the knees of his slacks soaking up water immediately. Hannibal swallows and glances at Will, noting the uncharacteristic brightness to his eyes, the recklessness etched into every line of his being. Surely Will wouldn't... no. No, he doesn't. But what he does - coyly asking if he should suck something too and then reaching for the gun - has Hannibal going very still and very tense. He watches as Will lifts the gun to his mouth and he gives his head the smallest of shakes.

"Will," Hannibal rasps, just shy of warning, but a simple warning has never sufficed for Will Graham. Not even the blood slowly sliding down his cheek.

It is... a curious sensation, the mix that crashes over Hannibal like a wave the moment Will's tongue touches cold metal. Trepidation and an aching arousal vie for top position and he draws in a sharper breath he means to be inaudible. Despite the pounding rain, his efforts miss the mark.

"Will," Hannibal tries again, and after a moment, he wets his lips unnecessarily and folds the blade of his knife back and pockets it. He's given his warning and Will has deemed it sufficient to give one of his own back. For no matter how deeply arousal twists in Hannibal's stomach as Will's lips slide recklessly over the end of the gun, Hannibal knows one thing: The safety is off.

Yet that particular problem is easily and boldly rectified. Hannibal reaches out, slowly, careful not to move too quickly. His hand finds Will's arm, a solid, warm weight as if to ground him, but it isn't until Hannibal's hand slides up to cover Will's own that his motives are clear. With one hand clearly assisting Will with the gun, Hannibal slides a finger firmly in front of the hammer, careful not to put pressure against the firing pin. He's tempted to flick the safety on, but he suspects Will might not find that as acceptable.

"This is reckless even for you," Hannibal breathes lowly, blatantly watching the pass of Will's lips over the metal of the gun.

Wetting his lips again even as water trails rivulets down both of their faces, Hannibal considers the moment and then pushes, easing the gun just a little deeper past Will's lips with a soft sigh, affected but not blatant. No. What's  _blatant_ is the way he leans in and tilts his head, almost as if moving in for a kiss, but instead of indulging in that way, Hannibal indulges in another. His tongue flattens against the line of blood on Will's jaw and Hannibal licks it up, savoring the crash of iron and salt with a small sigh.

"I can think of better uses for your mouth," Hannibal murmurs lowly in Will's ear, "but you look quite comfortable like this."

* * *

It doesn't matter to Will that he's technically giving a blowjob to a gun. There's no time for shame. Hannibal had induced seizures, seen him at his most medically unstable, sweating and losing his shit, so why not this too? What matters is proving himself. He'll prove that he can be equally dangerous and daring. He'll prove that they are both depraved. He'll prove that they belong together, that it's fate. The teacup had to shatter and Will had to break. He's fragmented, incomplete. He's clawed his way out of the chrysalis, wings not quite hardened yet. Likely, his metamorphosis is not complete, Will not quite reaching the last stage of an imago, but soon.

Hannibal repeats his name in a warning - like such a thing could stop him. Will is wet and cold, yet the chill settling in isn't uncomfortable. If anything, it's fitting. The blade is put away - Hannibal having made his point. Will feels raw, both grotesque and beautiful, but only Hannibal has the eye to see him fully, to see the cracks and splits, to see the desperation and desire. Once they sat across from each other doing therapy - having conversations -  _talking_ about death and power, and now they are both on their knees in the rain, headlights bathing them in harsh light while they  _experience_ it in a much more visceral manner.

Friend or liar? Betrayer or the betrayed? Love or hate? Psychopath or sane? Words didn't matter; they wouldn't be held back by labels, wouldn't be defined and put into boxes. What did it matter if Will, up until Hannibal, had been straight? Why shouldn't Hannibal infect this area of his life too? The man is a destructive force, a bringer of calamity and calm, for Will, too, feels a sense of rightness, a layer of peace amidst the chaos. The eye of the storm, perhaps.

Will watches Hannibal's hand reach out slowly, carefully resting on top of his own holding the gun, but making sure to provide an obstacle to the hammer. Apparently Will isn't going to be making art with his brain matter tonight. That's okay. Fine by him. And to prove Hannibal's words correct - yes, this is reckless even for him - when the barrel of the gun is pushed further into his mouth, Will moans. This is his gift. His performance.

Hannibal leaning in has Will pausing for a moment in confusion. When he feels that tongue lick along his cut, Will exhales noisily from his nostrils, shaking. Yes, they really are both depraved.

The words that follow - _‘I can think of better uses for your mouth, but you look quite comfortable like this’_ \- elicit an indignant huff, but Will doesn't truly mind the insinuation.

But it's his turn now and he ups the ante by reaching out and taking Hannibal's other hand and placing in on Hannibal's clothed erection. It's quite obvious what Will wants to happen, but will Hannibal give in?

* * *

Depraved is not often a descriptor Hannibal uses to describe himself. He is driven by no impulse beyond his ego and his curiosity. He is not a man who  _needs_ to kill. He merely enjoys the power and the art and the irony behind it. His killing and cannibalism are not paraphilia; his killing is justified and his cannibalism nothing more than power. A final indignity to those not deserving of it, those who have waived their right with their attitudes alone. He has few drives and impulses, and while his life is rich with vices, they are easily given up. 

 _Depravity_ is not a word that fits him, yet as he kneels there on the pavement, rain matting hair mussed by Will's fingers, watching Will suck cold, deadly metal, he feels a rush of heat go right through him. Will's blood is savory on his tongue, his licentious moan punctuating the roar from the rain, and Hannibal cannot help but feel depraved in that moment.

He has wanted this man before, but he  _wants_ at this moment now. Will Graham has become the destructive force he had once accused Hannibal of being. He has thrown Hannibal into an irreversible reaction, has slid his fingers in between fissures in Hannibal's armor and has bled them together. As Hannibal had infected Will, so too had Will changed him. He wishes to control this reckless creature, to possess him, to consume. Hannibal has never  _wanted_ anything before, not like this. Not with an intensity that borders on reckless. He is a selfish man, but he has never been a covetous man. He has never been obsessive before, not until Will Graham. He has never desired anything so acutely that he'd sooner destroy it than allow it to slide between his fingers.

Through the pounding rain, Hannibal listens to Will's shaky exhale, listens to the soft huff of uncertainty, and he locks that away. Then he feels a hand on his own and Hannibal draws back just enough to look down, watching in silence as Will boldly takes Hannibal's free hand and moves it over, pressing it against his clothed arousal. For a moment, Hannibal goes silent, for Will's request is clear. He draws back just enough to look at Will's face, studying the high flush to his cheeks and the reckless, wild look behind hooded eyes, and his decision is simple. Without removing his hand from the gun, Hannibal slides his free hand up enough to swiftly and elegantly undo his belt. The metal of the buckle clinks obscenely and while the button is silent, the zipper sounds loudly between them, raising its protest over the rain and adding to the depravity. Hannibal's expression is steady and fixed on Will's face as he slides his hand in through the part in his pants and it's hardly there a moment before Hannibal eases his cock out, shivering at the sensation of cold rain against heated skin.

If Will had anticipated hesitation, he gets none. Hannibal is not a timid man. He is brazen and confident in all things, and this is no different. Gaze locked on Will's face, on the salacious press of his lips around the barrel of the gun, Hannibal draws in a deep, slow breath and wraps his hand around himself. The contrast between the heat of his own skin and the cold of the rain is sharp and arousing, but Hannibal's focus is hardly on his own touch. No, his attention is on Will, on the picture he makes, on the blood mixing with rain on his face and the obscene press of the gun past his lips. Hannibal's grip tightens and he pulls, easing the gun free from the suction of Will's mouth but he holds it there, expectant. Even at Will's strongest, he can't pull the gun away. Not unless Hannibal allows it.

"Show me, then," he orders, and though his voice is still raw, it only adds to Hannibal's arousal. He strokes himself firmly, foreskin sliding over the head of his cock and massaging back down, the slick from his slit mixing with the rain. His eyes don't leave Will's face, not once.

"You don't wish to demean yourself... Show me how you would attempt to take me apart were you brave enough to try."

* * *

Will is expecting, at the very least, a small measure of hesitation on Hannibal's part. It's one thing to give a blowjob under gun point, but another to actually have one's own dick exposed. But, no, it's his turn to be surprised, Hannibal's hand wasting no time in going to his belt and unbuckling it like it's the most natural thing to do in this moment. The drag of a zipper downward has Will's eyes widening because goddammit, Hannibal is  _really_ going through with it. Will's face heats more as he blatantly watches Hannibal pull out his erection and wrap a hand around the flesh.

This is entirely new and exciting and holds a sick fascination for Will. He's never watched another man jerk off before and his eyes flit back and forth from Hannibal's face to his cock, unsure of what he wants to focus on. It should feel stranger to be rushing into such sexuality activity, as they've clearly skipped a few steps, but Will thinks maybe this is actually easier in a way. After all,  _he's_ the reason that Hannibal is aroused, it holds a different kind of power than thrusting roughly into Hannibal's mouth.

(He may like this more, actually. It's gratifying to be desired.)

The gun is pulled out of his mouth and Will doesn't try and fight it. He's very much aware that Hannibal is stronger than him. ‘ _Show me, then.’_ Will's lips quirk into a small grin as he licks his mouth. Perhaps they will both put on a show for each other. This thought is also gratifying. Hannibal strokes his dick almost proudly, no sign of embarrassment or hesitation present. Will likes the contrast - his messed up wet hair, his swollen lips and the sound of his wrecked voice. It's oddly attractive.

_'You don't wish to demean yourself... Show me how you would attempt to take me apart were you brave enough to try.’_

Will's smile flattens out. He hears the taunting. The word 'attempt' stands out to him also the implication that he's too scared to suck Hannibal off directly. It's aggravating. Yes, he has no experience in this, but he has his vivid imagination and he knows Hannibal. Will knows that whatever he would do would be received very well.

He smooths back wet hair from his forehead, considering what his next play ought to be. The cut stings and he wants to touch it again, but he leaves it alone. He doubts it needs stitches, but it's still a nice thought to be marked on the outside as well.

"It's not about bravery," Will begins and he caresses the gun with the uninjured side of his face, nuzzling it. "I know you want my mouth, Hannibal. All over you." His tone is confident and low. Will places a mockery of a light kiss to the knuckles on Hannibal's hand that's holding the gun with his own.

"But you're going to have to wait for that treat. For now, watch and wish, yeah?"

Will makes direct eye contact when he licks up the side of the barrel slowly. It tastes metallic, and half of it is already slick from his earlier sucking. He drags his bottom lip against the muzzle before tonguing the hole.

"Think about me. Think about my mouth. Don't you dare look away," Will instructs before his lips part and he, once again, takes the gun into his mouth. This time, he sucks deliberately hard, bobbing his head up and down, but only taking a comfortable amount inside. His other hand reaches out and wraps around the hand on Hannibal's cock.

It seems only fitting to complete the connection.

* * *

Hannibal's voice is both taunt and threat. While his throat is sore from the way Will's cock had stretched and rubbed it raw, and while the foundation between them has taken a markedly sexual shift, that doesn't change their history. Not four hours ago, Will Graham had been on death's door and had not even known it. Hannibal had been tempted to kill him for his betrayal and despite Will's choice, despite his realization, that anger has not bled away. No, it's merely found a new focus.

At the heart of anger is passion. Passion for justice, for fairness, for revenge, but passion nonetheless. Sex is a base form of the same, and while they have not discussed this change and while Will had presumed a great deal in believing Hannibal would willingly lower himself to his knees for him, Hannibal is not a man to stumble at a sudden shift in their relationship. He has always endured and he will always adapt, and as he fists his cock and watches the flicker of fascination and curiosity and awe wash over Will's expression, he quickly realizes that despite starting this, Will is still uncertain.

Hannibal distantly wonders if Will is aware of the emotions behind his eyes. Likely not. Were he aware, he'd undoubtedly lock himself down. Hannibal doesn't tell him, instead enjoying the flickering notes of power and fascination and arousal in Will's gaze as he looks from Hannibal's cock up to his face and back, seemingly torn on where to look.

The sight of Will's grin suddenly faltering has Hannibal's grip tightening, has him stroking himself ever so slightly faster with a slow, deeply drawn breath. He doesn't smile, but there is a clear edge of satisfaction to his gaze as Will's expression pinches. He's heard and understood the taunt. Hannibal watches as a spark of anger flickers to life despite the pounding chill of the rain, Will's ego his kindling and Hannibal's words his accelerant. Will is too proud a man to allow the comment to pass forever, and Hannibal enjoys the twist of anger across Will's features, the sudden stubborn desire to prove him wrong. It sends a small thrill through him and he wets his lips, gaze hooded but confident.

Will's voice draws his full focus and Hannibal glances at him fully. He is a vision like this, hot and angry from Hannibal's slight and yet working to shove back. Arousal thrums low in Hannibal's stomach as Will nuzzles the gun and he holds it steady. He listens as Will speaks, his voice pitched lower, stronger, confident, and a lazy smile threatens to tug at the corner of Hannibal's lips at the sound of it. He muffles a small sound in the back of his throat, blatantly watching Will's show. He neither confirms or denies his desire to have Will's mouth upon him, but he doesn't need to, given how hard Hannibal is for this man. The mocking kiss placed to his knuckles has Hannibal shivering, caught by the unexpected touch, and his gaze darkens as Will goes on.

_'But you're going to have to wait for that treat... watch and wish...'_

He does. Will meets his eyes and he swallows, his pulse picking up speed as Will blatantly tongues the cold metal of the gun. Hannibal moans softly - hardly a breath but still achingly present - as Will's tongue dips into the hole of the barrel.

The show is doing what Will had set it out to do. Hannibal does as he's told, for it serves his purposes as well. He has no desire to look away, nor to think about anything aside from Will and his mouth. He watches as Will's lips part and again close over the barrel of the gun, sucking hard, bobbing his head, and Hannibal strokes himself firmly, allowing himself the freedom to imagine what Will had told him to. He imagines Will's lips paled and wide around his cock, imagines the unquestionable softness of his hair under Hannibal's fingers, imagines Will struggling to take him in but too proud to admit it's too much. Imagines holding him in place despite this and feeling Will give in. Hannibal breathes heavier, tightening his grip as deep tremors of arousal slide down through him, sensitizing his skin and speeding his strokes. Once he might have attempted to draw this out, to force Will to remain in this position, but Hannibal has not forgotten about their new time limit. Even so, the desire to suspend Will in this moment is not one easily ignored.

Nor is Will's sudden touch. Fixated as he is on Will's eyes, on the lewd sight of his lips wrapped intimately around the barrel of the gun, Hannibal misses the movement of Will's other hand until suddenly it's wrapped around his. Immediately he starts and almost looks away but remembers at the last second. He has no  _need_ to obey Will, but Hannibal wants to right now. He doesn't look away, though the heat in his gaze immediately doubles. He slows his hand just enough to allow Will to learn the pace, to get his wrist used to the new angle, and then picks it up again with a low, groan, blatant for him, his gaze still fixated on Will's lips, his eyes.

"Hiding in darkness and wanton in the light," Hannibal breathes, his voice rough and hissed, but there's a low pleasure in it. "You pretend the depravity is mine, yet bloom under my scrutiny. You  _enjoy_ putting on a show for me, Will. You enjoy the attention. Knowing that I desire you. Knowing that were I less courteous, I would pull you down, remove the gun and demand reciprocity."

He shifts then, twisting his wrist enough to draw a soft gasp from his lips as he pushes the gun ever so slightly deeper, only once, then draws it back.

"Even Steven."

* * *

This is only the first act, the curtains barely having been pulled open and the players taking their positions, yet already they have embraced the tension so readily, jumping into inciting incident after inciting incident. It's far too easy to be drawn closer to the alluring flames and fan them. Will doesn't feel like the noble protagonist, he's no hero and he's certainly not innocent. His quest, of sorts, is proof enough of this. Hannibal, however, fits the role of antagonist like a fine leather glove. Will shall have his revenge, stab whatever lies in Hannibal's chest cavity (would it be a heart?) and twist the knife. He'll slay the monster. Maybe he won't make it out alive, but maybe that's exactly what he deserves for daring to play with the devil.

Will would like to believe that it's Hannibal to blame for this particular darkness that's settled into his veins. Will knows his head hasn't ever been sunshine and rainbows, but he'd never been really manipulated (and ultimately betrayed) until the doctor's interjection into his life. Will hadn't had to know if he was the type to hold grudges or exact revenge because he hadn't let himself be open all too often. But in the end, he  _had_ trusted Hannibal Lecter. Will hadn't even realized that they'd crossed over into friendship until he'd already been showing up to Hannibal's house or his office outside of his appointments and by then it was already too late.

Will would also like to believe that he isn't unsettled or afraid about being sexual with Hannibal, that he's not giving in and sucking him off because he'd rather tease. He knows that he will have to get over any qualms he has because Hannibal clearly desires him. Intimacy and lust will help forge a stronger bond. And there's already an obvious spark between them, something Will cannot fully understand or quantify, but it persists nonetheless. (He may also be curious to explore for himself, too.)

With Alana Bloom cut out of the equation, now each of them are the sole audience members and performer. They watch each other, both equally debased and enraptured by what is transpiring. Will feels a disturbing curl of arousal from both watching and being watched. This, too, is new. He's never been exactly too bold in the bedroom, but he has a feeling that that's going to likely change in the near future.

Him settling his hand over Hannibal's catches the older man off guard. He recovers quickly, slowing a little to allow Will time to adjust. When Hannibal finally makes a noticeable sound of pleasure, Will finds that he likes it and wants to hear more. Is not an unpleasant thought. He squeezes Hannibal's hand and matches the pace as they move over Hannibal's cock in tandem. Will thinks he's doing decently well with sucking off the gun until Hannibal speaking has him stuttering in his movements.

 _‘You enjoy putting on a show for me, Will.’_ (It's true, but he doesn't like hearing Hannibal stating as much...)

 _‘You enjoy the attention. Knowing that I desire you.’_ Will would smile, but he's busy sucking off his handgun…

 _‘Knowing that were I less courteous, I would pull you down, remove the gun and demand reciprocity.’_ It's likely as blunt as Hannibal ever would be and it hits the mark, a bit of panic flaring in Will's chest at the thought of choking on Hannibal's dick. But if Hannibal could do it... (Will isn't going to be beat. He might not do it tonight, but he  _will_ do it.)

The gun suddenly jerking forward into his mouth has Will sputtering.  _Even Steven_. He can't even be mad. Will also can't help but give a delighted muffled chuckle in response to the deserved antic. Hannibal is showing his claws and, frankly, Will is excited at the prospect. A declawed beast would be no fun. If Hannibal wants reciprocity, Will would try to deliver. He pushes himself to take more of the barrel in until it's hitting the back of his throat and he's gagging. He pulls back from reflex, eyes watering, but Will repeats the motion again. And again, cheeks hollowing as he sucks obscenely. There's spit escaping from the sides of his mouth but Will doesn't relent. He'll be as undignified as he wants until Hannibal comes.

* * *

Hannibal's boldness hits its mark. His language is not vulgar, for it's not something Hannibal requires in order to get his point across. Even so, he cannot deny his pleasure at the brief flicker of panic behind Will's eyes. Yes, he believes he loves this man, inconvenient and irritating a notion as that is, but he is as he has always been.  _Love_ will not temper his sadism or his bitterness over what Will had planned with Jack. The only thing it does is ensure that Will's place in Hannibal's life is tempting, but not fully secure. Hannibal had almost killed him that evening. While he's relieved he held the impulse back, it's a reminder that Will is not  _immune,_ merely holds a resistance. Hannibal doesn't want him dead. He prefers Will Graham alive.

The flicker of panic after his words has his strokes speeding, Will's hand temptingly tight over his own, an extra press, a reminder that Will is as involved in this moment as he is. It's a heady sensation that leaves heat coiling low inside, that has his breathing edging towards shallow as pleasure begins to spike. Hannibal doesn't smile, but there is a lazy satisfaction behind his eyes as he watches Will suddenly struggle with the gun. Hannibal eases it back just enough for Will to recover, and while he is expecting rage or humiliation, he finds himself curiously proud to see  _amusement_ in Will's eyes. A soft sound - a laugh? - escapes Will's throat and it is just curious enough to ensnare Hannibal's full attention. Will can appreciate the reciprocation then, can appreciate the irony. Hannibal does allow himself to smile then, though as pleasure coils tighter within, he allows it to fall away as unimportant.

For what  _becomes_ important is all Will Graham. So focused already, Hannibal doesn't miss the sudden flicker of something edging toward determination behind Will's eyes, and he is both silently delighted and transfixed as Will suddenly pushes himself. Hannibal holds the gun steady, his other hand quick and twisting on his cock, subconsciously showing Will what he likes as he breathes harder, mesmerized by the sight of the gun barrel disappearing deeper into Will's mouth.

Hannibal wets his lips and groans softly as Will suddenly convulses, gagging around the press of the gun against the back of his throat. Tears spring to his eyes and Hannibal watches hungrily as Will draws back, thinking it over, but no. No, Will continues, pressing himself down again and again, saliva mixing with the rain, and the picture he makes is so debauched that Hannibal finds himself surprised by just  _how_ close he is.

The edge of pleasure changes, growing sharper, and Hannibal hisses out a rougher breath, studying the press of Will's lips, the beautiful hollow to his cheeks. The cut bleeds freely, blood trailing beautifully down the side of Will's face, and Hannibal allows himself to imagine Will's heat. The tight seal of his lips broken by a shifted thrust, wet, tight suction, and the clench and strain of Will's throat as he gags and struggles to continue. He's beautiful like this, utterly debauched, wild, and painfully free, and a softer edge slides into the mix of sharp pleasure and then that's it. Hannibal makes a lower sound, something bordering on a growl or a snarl, and he moves.

Without Will noticing, Hannibal flicks the safety of the gun back on in the motion it takes to draw his hand away from the gun and up into Will's hair. He curls his fingers through sodden strands, clenching tight, and pulls him down just enough to risk throwing Will off balance, to get him choking on the barrel again.

"There... Good boy. Hold yourself there for me..." he breathes.

Hannibal doesn't close his eyes, doesn't look away from Will even as his hips snap up twice into the tight tunnel of their fists. Brow furrowing, Hannibal chases that edge and with a sharp, violent sound he makes no effort to silence, he comes. He pulses hot over his own hand, but takes silent delight in a stripe of come painting the knee of Will's slacks, and Hannibal rides the unexpected intensity of having Will  _watch_.

His breathing is so hard that it's practically ragged when the knife's edge of pleasure fades into something warmer. Hannibal looks at Will, at the image he makes, and he keeps his hand tight in Will's hair for longer than is strictly necessary, then finally allows his grip to fade. He strokes his fingers back through the matted, wet strands and hums softly in the back of his throat: a sound of satisfaction.

"Good... very good. I would be hard-pressed to find you more stunning than I do now, Will."

Mussed, his hair a mess, eyes watering, saliva and blood dripping down his face, with his clothes plastered obscenely to his body. It's a raw image, entirely genuine, and Hannibal brushes his fingers back through Will's hair, and then lifts his other hand to Will's face. The rain washes away most of the come on Hannibal's hand, but he still takes one single moment to press his thumb to the wound on Will's cheek, rubbing a small amount into the cut. Will had forced him to swallow. Hannibal is only returning the favor in his own way.

Reciprocity.

"You look beautifully debauched."

* * *

Repeatedly gagging himself is obscene and ridiculous. It doesn't  _feel_ good, but Will doesn't stop. If this is his first real performance for Hannibal, he's going to give it his all, push himself to go further and yes, prove himself too. Now is his time to shine, to get his own claws deeper into Hannibal and ensure that he’s got his hooks secure. No escaping. He needs to be Hannibal's drug of choice, enslave his senses and be the bad habit Hannibal cannot shake. Will needs to become a fatal addiction - heroin for Hannibal Lecter.

While he's watched, Will realizes that behind that composed demeanor, underneath the mask Hannibal wears for the world, is a deep reservoir of feeling. It's a new realization that leaves him uneasy. Will's only gazing a few feet into that dark pool, letting his fingers skim across the surface, but he feels strangely like he's drowning under Hannibal's intense attention. It's not the quiet of his stream rushing by him, it's ice cold water streaming down his throat, filling his lungs and he's unable to get oxygen, panic rising up--

But, no. Breathing is made difficult because of his own doing, moving back and forth on the gun, sucking at the barrel and trying to focus on getting air through his nostrils. Will forces thoughts of drowning out of his mind, re-focusing on the present reality. Reality is that Will feels like a whore right now, but he's not exactly ashamed.

His vision is a little bleary from his eyes watering, but Will persists in this pursuit. Even amidst his own sounds, Will can make out a few delicious responses coming from Hannibal and it's encouraging.

Hannibal's hand re-positions itself in his hair and Will blinks rapidly at the sudden tight grasp. His eyes widen as he's abruptly yanked down further on the gun. He struggles against the onslaught, coughing. It's a lot different when it's not of his own doing. But... Told to stay, called a ‘ _good boy_ ,’ and Will does just that. The name is a curious thing - perhaps demeaning as he's not a boy - but Will finds that a part of him enjoys the praise and recognition. (The part is too big, honestly, but any part is too large...) His throat gradually relaxes and attentive, but glassy eyes watch as Hannibal comes undone and finally finishes.

He's not allowed to move despite Hannibal having come. Will breathes just as harshly, unwrapping his hand from Hannibal's and coming to rest as his side. Eventually, the grip lessens and Will takes it as a sign that he's allowed to pull off the gun. He's a mess as he puts the gun down by the discarded cellphone. Will tries to mask how the compliments make him feel, his expression tight. Hannibal doesn't make it easy as he rubs his cut and says he looks beautifully debauched.

Will ends up having to look down at his knees to hide whatever may be showing on his face. It's like the beginning of their friendship all over again. There's a splatter of come on one of his knees. Will stares at it for a moment before he makes up his mind and takes a finger and swipes up a small sample, bringing it to his mouth and licking it off. It tastes fairly bitter, but it's more reciprocity.

The adrenaline of the moment is starting to come down and Will feels lost and cold. He's shivering, unsure how to process and  _what now_?

* * *

There is no part of Hannibal that misses the fact that in those few wonderful seconds, Will Graham is obedient. There's a flicker of confusion behind his eyes, perhaps one of distress, like he's not certain why he'd responded in the first place to Hannibal's soft praise. Yet Hannibal doesn't miss the way Will gives in, the way he accepts the press of the gun far too deep, and the way a part of him trusts that Hannibal will allow him up eventually. The praise only settles deeper within Will's posture and despite the blinding headlights and the pounding rain around them, deafening them both to anything else, Hannibal silently locks this information away like a secret. He takes in the glassy look in Will's eyes and silently delights in the way Will finally responds when he's allowed. The gun slides from his lips and Hannibal watches as saliva trickles down Will's chin, his eyes watering and lips loose as he breathes in hard, looking the picture of utter debauchery. Hannibal's addition - the smear of come rubbed into the cut - is the cherry on the cake, so to speak.

Or he thinks it is. It turns out to be the icing, for the  _cherry_ is when Will's gaze drops. He looks dazed, uncertain, almost confused, and as Hannibal watches and considers snapping his fingers near Will's face to bring him back, Will slides his hand down to his knee and wipes at the stripe of come left behind. Watching Will's tongue snake out to lick his finger punches a soft, rough sound from Hannibal's throat. A small, barely-there snarl curls his lip as he breathes out unsteadily, and his grip threatens to tighten once more in Will's hair before he decides against it.

"You  _do_ always have a surprise up your sleeve, don't you?" Hannibal's voice is low, bordering on proud.

He's impressed, and the urge to chase Will's tongue, to lean in and claim his lips is intense. It's also reckless. He draws in a deep breath and then lets it out slowly.

His hand leaves Will's hair. Though the desire to bask in this moment is nearly overwhelming, for Will looks thoroughly debauched and shaken, there is more at play here than this new twist to their relationship. Still breathing hard, Hannibal trails his fingers down Will's cheek and cups it only for a moment, then allows his other hand to fall back down. He silently tucks himself back into his slacks and after only a moment to process, Hannibal moves.

He reaches for Will's gun and the cell phone. The gun he simply checks in silence, and then ejects the clip into his hands. He silently pockets it and hands the gun back to Will after making sure there's no round in the chamber. It wouldn't do to have Will shooting himself.

"Back in its holster, if you would," he directs calmly, and then turns to his phone, pocketing it and rising gracefully to his feet.

He offers Will a hand and waits until it's taken, then hefts Will to his feet, leading him around his side of the car. Though he dislikes the idea of allowing the seat of his car to soak through, he opens Will's door for him and takes the long woolen coat he'd discarded before. Without waiting to ask Will what he wants, Hannibal silently pulls the coat back on, directing Will to fit his arms through the sleeves and wrap himself up properly. He ushers him into the Bentley and the warmth within and closes the door, then walks around to his side. In Hannibal's case he merely eyes the driver's seat and then removes his coat, bundling it up improperly to trap the water within as he sets it in the back seat. He silently removes the knife and his phone. Dressed in his suit - checked grey with blue trim, coupled with a light blue shirt and paisley tie - he eases into the driver's seat once more and sets his knife by the door, out of Will's grasp, like a parent child-proofing an area.

His clothes are not quite soaked through and Hannibal takes it. Uncaring if Will is watching, he brings out his phone and systematically deletes everyone from his contact list, taking time to wipe it down. Then he removes the SIM card and - finally - he opens the back of the phone and removes the battery.

"Phone," he prompts, holding a hand out to Will. His tone leaves no room for argument. Once Will gives in, he does the same thing, politely not reading any conversation or looking through any pictures. The battery is removed and Hannibal sets both devices - screens black and dead - in the back seat.

"Excuse me one moment," Hannibal says, and turns off the Bentley. He ducks back out, knife in hand, and Will is left alone for only a minute before Hannibal returns, a small fuse in his hand that he promptly deposits in one of the cup holders. He says nothing, but what he's done is clear. The fuse had been in the GPS tracker on his car. The last known location that Jack Crawford will see is that Hannibal had been somewhere in the vicinity of Wolf Trap.

"Close your eyes and listen to the sound of my breathing," Hannibal instructs almost carelessly, though there is a small hint of warmth in his tone, easily overlooked. He starts the car again and without looking at Will, he pulls back onto the road. The atmosphere within the Bentley is stifling in its silence and outside, the rain pounds on, nearly violent, so heavy the wipers almost have trouble keeping up.

"I assume you would prefer we don't return to my home for whatever reason. If so, I suppose it would be a simple matter to move my travel plans up a day. It's late. If you are able to rest, do so. I will wake you when required." 

* * *

Licking and tasting Hannibal's come is hardly the biggest surprise Will has had up his sleeve. After all, Jack and he had been planning on trapping and apprehending the Ripper over a nice dinner. Still, that plan had been months in the making, had hung around in the back of his mind where the former had been an impulse. But they both know Will is impulsive and reckless at the best of times. This is nothing new, although Will is surprising himself that he's taken to his new role moderately easily. Anger and revenge are transformative forces.

A gentle touch is given to his face - Hannibal's hand cupping his cheek - but it's a farce of care being shown to him. Will does nothing, staying kneeling while the rain continues to pour down on them. He has no idea what love could possibly mean to someone like Hannibal. Has Hannibal ever been in love before? Will can't really picture it. He knew it hadn't been love with Alana, but what about a younger Hannibal, a version of the man that Will's never known? (Does he even want to know?)

When the now ammo-less gun is handed back to him, Will does as told, holstering the useless weapon. He takes the offered hand. He doesn't need to, but it would seem petty to refuse it. Pulled up, he's ushered back to the passenger side and Hannibal goes a step further, helping Will into his dry jacket. He feels a bit like a child, but it seems easier to just go along rather than make any fuss about it. Will climbs back inside the warm vehicle. A moment later he's passing over his cell that's been turned off since he called Hannibal.

Will doesn't pay much attention to what Hannibal is doing. It's obvious enough - he's preparing for them to leave. To flee. To start over again... A fresh start with Hannibal, an uncertain rocky future, surely. They don't deserve it, but they will take it anyway.

When Hannibal returns, Will does up his seatbelt and looks ahead. The suggestion to listen to Hannibal's voice has Will turning to direct his gaze out of his own window, uncomfortable with that idea. With the car running, the rain, and the wipers going, he likely wouldn't be able to focus on it anyway. He closes his eyes.

"I want to just go," Will replies softly.

He wants more miles put between them and his old life. Goodbye Wolf Trap, goodbye Jack, goodbye Alana, hello life with Hannibal. He presses the cut against the leather seat, feeling the sting in a new way. Will falls asleep with thoughts of trying to escape out of Hannibal's dark, vast depths, his legs kicking hard to make him reach the surface.

* * *

Will turning away from him nets only a slight lift of one of Hannibal's eyebrows before he turns to face the road ahead. He doesn't take offense to Will turning away from him, nor does he push and press to get him to speak. Orgasm has lightened the crush of bitterness in his chest some, but not completely. Endorphin can only do so much, and a pleasant buzzing of power and pleasure under his skin does nothing to ease the reality of what he knows Will had been going to do. This change of heart is... suspicious, but Hannibal is not yet suspicious enough to cull the litter for fear of an outbreak. So Will retreating within himself is almost beneficial. Hannibal simply turns his focus onto the road ahead and reaches over to lightly flick the radio on. These stations are safe, untraceable, and the sound of soft music mixes with the din from the rain, creating as soothing an atmosphere as Hannibal can manage.

It doesn't take long for Will to fall into a somewhat fitful sleep. Hannibal drives on, glancing at the other man from time to time to merely study the rise and fall of his chest and the way his hair remains damp and curled on his forehead. Silently Hannibal reaches over with a ghostlike touch and moves Will's bangs back away from his eyes. It's freely tender for all the bitterness still coiled tightly in Hannibal's chest. He merely sighs, grateful that Will had chosen to sleep on his own, for the hassle of sedating him would have run the risk of being far too memorable once they arrive at the hotel Hannibal has in mind.

The drive to Washington is relatively short. Far shorter than it would have been to return to Baltimore. Hannibal drives in silence, the radio low, the wipers a rhythmic breath as if the Bentley itself is attempting to do its part to soothe Will in Hannibal's stead. He drives until he comes upon a 24-Hour Walmart and while his lips pull into a mild grimace at the very thought, he doesn't waste time. He slips his suit jacket, vest, and tie off in the car, then opens the door and steps outside. It's a simple matter to swap license plates with another car from Baltimore, one that will likely not notice the change for some time. Then he swaps those plates around with another. It takes no more than a few minutes at most and Hannibal is silent and careful, watchful for anyone who might be looking. The rain is heavy upon him, serving as an adequate shield against prying eyes. When he gets back into the car, he reaches up and runs his fingers back through his hair, attempting to coerce it back into some semblance of style before abandoning it as useless.

Beside him, Will sleeps on, unaware anything had happened. Hannibal looks at him quietly, studying his lax features. He'd stood so powerfully on his porch not two hours ago, chin up, shoulders back, looking every bit the wolf in sheep's clothing Hannibal knows him to be. Now Will looks small and young, hair a mess, dwarfed by his coat. A mixed desire slides insidiously through him. It would be so simple to kill him. Sixteen pounds of pressure to snap a neck, give or take, that's all it takes. Yet despite the bitterness of betrayal still burning hot in his chest, the desire to grab a blanket from the trunk is equally as volatile. Hannibal resists both urges.

He allows Will to rest until they arrive at the Hay-Adams Hotel. The rain is just as heavy here - perhaps more so than in Wolf Trap - and Hannibal suspects this particular weather system will hit Baltimore by tomorrow. Good. The weather is in their favor as well then. He takes a moment to park in the hotel's parking and after a quick look at Will, he finally reaches over and turns off the radio. Then he turns off the car and shifts in his seat to better look at Will, still asleep, though looking closer to wakefulness with the sound of the engine no longer soothing him. The rain is louder without the purr of the Bentley around them, yet Hannibal watches him silently for a while, just admiring this man. This man who may be reckless and compulsive, but who had chosen  _him_. Hannibal wets his lips and reaches over finally, setting a hand on Will's shoulder and giving him a soft shake before thinking better of it. His fingers instead move to Will's hair, once again gently carding through it.

"Will. Will, wake up. You may sleep again once we've been shown to our room."

* * *

Will falls asleep and, for him, it's moderately peaceful. It's difficult to differentiate between what should be considered a dream and a nightmare. Like his thoughts, what plagues him while sleeping is often not tasty. For the most part, if he wakes up in any sort of panic and sweaty, it's a nightmare. If he's just confused and bothered, it's a dream. Will's subconscious never treats him to the silly embarrassing 'caught in your underpants' types of dreams, no. The content reflects his own troubled mind, tendrils of darkness and violence wrapping around him and being reflected back to him.

He dreams of himself at one Hannibal's undoubtedly ostentatious dinner parties. He's not dressed appropriately, of course, wearing khakis and a flannel plaid shirt. Rooms are packed with guests - members of Baltimore high society, he assumes and they look at him like he's an eyesore. Will keeps his head down, pushing through the crowd, searching for a familiar face - for Hannibal. He can hear him in the distance, that familiar accented voice putting on the full charm for whomever he happens to be entertaining. No matter how many bodies he weaves through, Will cannot reach or find Hannibal and unease spreads through him. Hannibal's house becomes maze-like, littered with well-dressed guests and speckled with hired help who try and push various o'dourves and delicacies at him. Will turns each one down; he just wants to find Hannibal.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spies his stag and decides to go to it instead. Will turns, following the stag down a surprisingly empty corridor. It holds the same feel, but he can't remember ever seeing this particular hallway at Lecter's residence.

"Where are you going, huh?" he asks the creature curiously.

It snorts in response, stopping in front of a closed wooden door and seeming to gesture at it with its snout. Will reaches out and twists the doorknob. It leads into Hannibal's office. The site is achingly familiar, but the floor is wet with an inch of dark cool water. It's quite the contrast from the last time Will had been there, a crackling fire going while they'd burned patient notes together. It's then he notices the wendigo crouched over something in the far corner. Will swallows, he already knows it’s a some _one_ as he sloshes through the water and around the large desk to investigate. The wendigo rises, turning to meet him. It's as black as ever, thin and smarmy and it's mouth and chin are coated in blood. It stares at him defiantly, uncaring that it's been caught in the act. Will looks down at its unfortunate victim.

He sees himself.

It's then he hears Hannibal and the dream dissipates around him like it's just another crime scene he's recreated. Will jolts when reality rushes back in and he blinks his eyes open. He hadn't thought he actually would fall asleep. Normally trying ended up in a futile 'resting his eyes' exercise. He'd honestly thought the same was likely to occur.

"I'm awake," he says, frowning. "Where are we?"

He's informed that they are in Washington at The Hay-Adams hotel. The name means nothing to Will so he says nothing as he retrieves his duffel bag from the back. He looks at the building. It's the quintessential luxurious place he'd expect Hannibal to stay at, but not himself. Will scoffs at his companion as he's retrieving something out of the trunk.

"You haven't even bought me dinner and you're splurging for this fancy of hotel? It's like a regular honeymoon."

He's being an asshole for no good reason. He's grumpy from being woken up and despite his better attire, this isn't the type of place Will would ever willingly be at, but he has no choice in the matter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you _want_ to make me bleed, Will?" Hannibal asks tightly. It's not a yes, but it's not a no. Hannibal cannot help his curiosity. He is consenting, but silently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to probably the longest shower scene ever (it's split between this chapter and the next) xD We are not sorry at all. We're also the most indulgent fuckers ever. ヾ(￣◇￣)ノ
> 
> As always, thanks to attic-nights for the beta.

Though curious why Will jolts slightly upon waking, Hannibal merely watches as Will's eyes blink open and look around, taking stock of their surroundings. He silently removes his fingers from Will's hair before the indulgence fully registers and instead he regards Will quietly. He has sparingly watched Will sleep before. Only one time truly comes to mind, and it had been in a situation similar to this, with Hannibal driving through the evening and Will asleep in the passenger's seat of his Bentley.

He looks younger than his years for a moment and then that youth hardens into displeasure as Will struggles to bring himself back to wakefulness. His blinks are slow and under different circumstances, Hannibal would find them endearing, but there's a distance to Will's eyes as he squints at the building Hannibal has parked them in front of.

He informs Will where they are and while the comment he receives in return is enough to furrow his brow, Hannibal dismisses Will's mood for being over-tired and the stress of the situation.

"I thought it fitting considering the changes you imposed upon our relationship," Hannibal says, his tone a mild reprimand and his words a barbed reminder that  _Will_ had been the one to push. It is somewhat defensive, perhaps, but Hannibal moves beyond it immediately.

"I would ask that you allow me to book us in." Hannibal takes a moment to look Will over - exhausted, still wet, his hair a bit of a mess - and he deems him fit for his purposes. "Make your way inside. I will join you in a moment."

He does. He takes a moment to retrieve his clothes from the back and pulls them on, his coat heavy with water and hair again damp from the heavy rain. Hannibal walks to the trunk of the car and opens it, ducking under to shield himself from the rain as he opens a panel on the side of the vehicle and withdraws a number of cards, idly flicking through them until he finds one he deems fitting. Sliding the rest back in place, he grabs a duffel bag in the back - he is never without essentials should he need to run - and closes and locks the car, hastening his pace to follow Will into the hotel and get in out of the rain.

The interior of the Hay-Adams is as luxurious as the exterior, with rich cherry wood pillars and regal white archways leading deeper within the building. This late in the evening there are a few people milling about but most seem to be heading either toward the exit that leads to the bar or coming from it. Hannibal casts Will a quick look simply to ensure he still looks the part Hannibal wishes, and then nods.

"Wait here, please," he says, though it's clear this isn't a request.

Shouldering his bag, Hannibal turns away from Will and approaches the front desk, though halfway there, Hannibal makes a conscious effort to adjust the  _person suit_ he's wearing. He does it as simply as one changing clothes. One moment his posture is precise and the next he's slightly more slouched, his gait less a stride and more a slightly affected stroll. Rigid shoulders loosen and he makes a point to look around as he approaches the front desk, gathering his coat about himself.

He makes quick work of it. A decade or so ago Hannibal had witnessed a skilled young man sheepishly charm his way into receiving his due from restaurant staff. He'd been self-deprecating, somewhat awkward, but forceful and he'd laid on the charm. Hannibal had been casually intrigued and within a day or so, he'd mastered the man's mannerisms. They've worked for him in the past, and they do so now.

For while the man behind the counter looks mildly sympathetic - he's quick to explain that the hotel books in advance. Hannibal merely smiles and explains - a quick, hastened story about sudden flight changes and lost luggage that has the man cracking a small smile against his will. Like this, posture open and amiable - 'sheepishly' attempting to keep water from dripping on the desk in front of him - he explains that his experience with the Hay-Adams has always been positive and he'd hate to change that.

In the end, the man - younger, with dark hair and a reluctant smile on his face - casts a quick, curious look to Will standing in the doorway and shifts somewhat awkwardly.

"We only have single-bed rooms available at present, Sir, but I could have a double made up for you within the hour."

"Doctor," Hannibal corrects, and he glances back at Will only for a moment before looking back ahead. His expression is carefully tailored to look both somewhat pleased and somewhat awkward. "And that won't be necessary. Single is fine."

The emphasis is clear and Hannibal watches the knowing glance flicked between the two of them. Inwardly he smirks; Will's attitude does have certain consequences.

It's simple from there. Hannibal gives his name - "Nikolas Fischer. Nikolas with a K," - and pays cash. (He notes that the man relaxes ever so slightly at the sound of a Germanic name. Americans tend to get hung up on accents and this is a simple solution.)

He's given a room key and when the gentleman behind the counter offers to wave someone over to carry the luggage up for them, Hannibal dismisses that with a soft laugh and says he refuses to put them out any more. With heartfelt thanks that is carefully constructed, he turns away and steps back toward Will, gesturing him to follow.

Hannibal meets him halfway and leads him to the elevator, tipping a small nod to the gentleman who calls out: "Enjoy your stay, Dr. Fischer."

He leads Will into the elevator and as soon as the doors close, the easy posture sheds off of him like a second skin. Hannibal shifts, rolling his shoulders and fixing his proper posture back into place.

"Thank you for remaining where you were. You made that much simpler."

* * *

The reply he gets from his snarky comment has Will's frown deepening. ‘… _Changes you imposed on our relationship…’_  

It's true, it'd been Will that had pushed, Will that had started grinding against the knife, Will that had pushed Hannibal to his knees and whipped out his cock and pushing it into the doctor's mouth. It would have been easier to accept if things had stopped there, but no, Will rose to the challenge and insinuated a reciprocal blowjob on the handgun as well as both encouraging Hannibal to touch himself and taking part in it.

Their foray into sex had been completely  _his_ doing. Will doesn't feel exactly embarrassed by it - he has a reason for his actions. And it wasn't like Hannibal alone had got him aroused; it had been direct stimulation, easy to understand and explain, a biological response to why  _he_ got off.

He says nothing and stuffs his hands inside coat pockets. If he has to fidget, he won't let others witness it. He goes ahead, warily eyeing the posh hotel's beautiful architecture. He can  _appreciate_ it, but Will still doesn't want to be here. This is Hannibal's world and he's an outsider. Even better dressed as he is, Will knows he's an imposter. His body language and apprehensive expression say as much, but he doesn't turn back to look for Hannibal. Will looks resolutely ahead, avoiding eye contact, and leaning against a pillar. Soon enough, Hannibal joins him, but, like a dog, he's told to stay. Will does, but his fingers tap nervously in his pocket.

He focuses on Hannibal, watching him walk up to the front desk and Will sees his posture change - more relaxed, more friendly, even a bit sheepish - and Will scowls. Another performance, but one he's not exactly privy to viewing. He can see how the desk agent  _reacts_ though, with Hannibal's mannerisms and words winning him over and it looks like they will be staying here the night.

When a glance is thrown toward him, Will looks away from the interaction and steps closer, not feeling alright with his feelings any longer. He overhears the name Hannibal gives -  _Nikolas Fischer. Nikolas with a K_ \- and Will rolls his eyes. Still pretentious, somehow. He observes an exorbitant amount of cash being handed over and Will takes one hand out of his pocket to grip the strap on his bag tighter.

Will follows Hannibal to the elevator, glad they're not receiving any help with their fairly light luggage. Hannibal's fake persona falls away and Will has to silently admire how  _easy_ it seems for him to both put them on and get rid of them. It  _should_ alarm him probably, but it doesn't. Will licks his lips and comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with Hannibal.

"Nikolas, huh? Pretty pedestrian compared to 'Hannibal,' sure you can handle it?" Before Hannibal can answer, Will continues. "The agent thinks we're together. Lovers. How quaint. Going to romance me? Strawberries and champagne? Make me moan out ' _Oh, Nikolas_ '?"

More snark. Likely unwise.

* * *

Hannibal quickly checks the room key as the elevator doors close. It's elegant and imprinted with numbers resembling calligraphy and the weight of the carved surface resembles bone. He'd been handed a key card as well, which he assumes is responsible for opening the actual door. The other key is either a backup or for show, and he appreciates the added dedication to detail. The room number is clear - 133 - and after checking the back of the bone tag, Hannibal takes note that it's on the sixth floor.

High up overlooking the city is perhaps a bit reckless when they are disappearing, but he has faith in Jack's recklessness and Alana's kindness. Hannibal also has a single added benefit: If Jack had proof of his crimes, he would have been locked up or dead a long time ago. There is no  _need_ for him to go off the grid, but he feels it safer. He takes comfort in the knowledge that were Jack to stride into their hotel room in the morning, it would be a simple matter to claim that he has decided to leave with Will. Together.

The thought nearly draws a smile to his lips and Hannibal begins to reach for the button to take them to the sixth floor when Will steps in beside him, brushing their shoulders together. Considering Hannibal has always been the one to initiate contact - save for just a little over an hour ago - this draws him up short, hesitating out of curiosity rather than alarm. He slants a look at Will and is not surprised to see the flicker of belligerence behind Will's eyes. Hannibal only looks at him for a moment and then turns his attention back to the buttons, bored. Will's attempt to rile him is borne of little but petulance and stress and Hannibal cares very little for whether or not Will thinks the false name is  _beneath_ him.

Yet before he can draw breath to lazily retort, Will verbally barrels ahead and this time Hannibal does turn his head to look over at him. Will's tone is low with sarcasm and mocking; at this moment, he's little more than a child acting out. Hannibal considers curling his lip, considers ignoring him. He understands. Will is reckless and rude because he is flying blind. He has no paddle but him, and his decision to choose  _Hannibal_ is undoubtedly shaking him to his very foundation.

At this point, all Will _can_ do is act out, is push back and test a grip that not even Hannibal is secure in. There's been no conversation. Hannibal had merely considered ending Will's life; not four hours later he'd found himself on his knees on the highway with Will's cock a heavy, hot weight on his tongue. Not even Hannibal knows what they're doing.

He's livid and hurt, Will's betrayal sharp, and for a moment he considers flicking the knife out and reminding Will why silence is a virtue, but the thought is reactive and likely exactly what Will is after. So Hannibal instead simply looks at him, his gaze visibly lowering to Will's mouth at the half-moan, sarcastic as it is. He remembers the way Will's lips had paled around the barrel of the gun and a telling heat settles within, low but not insistent.

He wets his lips. "He believes us lovers, yes. Given your impulse earlier this evening, is he mistaken?" Hannibal asks almost dismissively. Giving Will no time to reply, Hannibal takes a moment to look Will over, from his mussed hair to his damp shoes and the dark stain over one knee. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips as he considers the man and then turns.

"Perhaps he is...  _Lovers._ " Scoffing, just shy of derisive.

Hannibal reaches up and presses his hand to Will's cheek, light enough to be nearly fond but sharp enough to force Will's chin higher, to throw him slightly off balance.

"You have no desire to be romanced. You want to be pushed. You delight in pushing me as you know I will push back and not treat you like the fragile little teacup Jack sees you as. You take pleasure in the idea that I was willing to give everything up for your presence despite your deception. As do you take pleasure in the idea that I am still here. That I went to my knees for you."

Again, Hannibal wets his lips. A pointed reminder. His grip on Will's chin tightens and he allows himself a small quirk of a smile as he leans in and hits the button for the sixth floor.

"You're rapacious, and you're not fooling either of us. You would not be satisfied if I made you moan for me. You would only be satisfied were I to make you  _scream_."

* * *

Will doesn't think on  _why_  he's acting out. It matters little to him. For months he's been pretty damn polite and cordial, following Hannibal down his obscure topics of conversation, playing nicely and behaving (more or less). He's held his tongue and now Will doesn't have to. Will lets it be as simple as that. He can hiss and spit and Hannibal will take it. He may have chosen Hannibal, he may like the praise and compliments, but he's not going to be an angel, he's not going to make anything easy. If he's going to con Hannibal Lecter, he'll have to be much more genuine than he has been in the past and that means showing all his rough edges and likely irritating the doctor in the process. Will figures that they're both going to be irritated a great deal about each other for various reasons. 

Hannibal doesn't flinch nor react immediately. Will's leveled with a considering look and yes, he notices Hannibal's eyes flicking downward and focusing on his mouth. Will's lips curve into a pleased little grin, amused at Hannibal's interest and desire; likely it's lingering from the earlier altercation on the road. Will has no plans on sucking Hannibal's dick anytime soon, no. He'll make Hannibal wait for that 'treat,' lord his mouth over the man. Will thinks it's going to be quite fun. Certainly more fun than giving in and figuring out how to give a blowjob, but he'll manage when the time comes. And then Hannibal would.

When Hannibal does finally reply, Will stops smiling, expecting the words to not please him. He's right. On one hand, the word 'lovers' disgusts him, he knows it's inappropriate for them. But equally, he wants Hannibal in  _every_ way and he doesn't want that label taken away from him. It's a confusing conflict and one Will doesn't even know how to tackle. Hannibal isn't looking for an answer to that, though. A hand coming to cup his face (the uninjured side) and his chin is tilted up. It's patronizing and irritation flares in Will.

It's true he has no desire to be romanced. Anyway, with all the fancy fucking dinners in low light and sipping on wine, Will feels like he has already had enough of what Hannibal's idea of romance would turn out to be. Will's mouth opens to protest the assertion that  _he_ wants to be pushed. Yes, he delights in provoking Hannibal, but is it actually because Hannibal won't treat him delicately? It's not something Will wants to figure out, but before any protest can even be constructed, Hannibal continues.

His words - the accurate statements - have Will closing his mouth. It's the truth. Will is smugly satisfied that, despite his deception, Hannibal left with him. And yes, Hannibal went to his knees and sucked him off and is  _still_ at his side. How can Will not be extremely pleased by such things? He watches Hannibal's tongue wet his lips. His heart has sped up uncomfortably throughout this all. Will gives a shade of a smile as Hannibal coolly presses the floor button. Will is motionless, knowing that Hannibal is not finished yet.

 _‘You're rapacious, and you're not fooling either of us. You would not be satisfied if I made you moan for me. You would only be satisfied were I to make you **scream**_. _'_

And there it is. Hannibal's riposte is beautiful, artful even, and Will feels his face heat at the implication. He's never screamed before, he can't see it happening, but a part of him is intrigued by the concept. He swallows past a lump and jerks away from the grasp.

"I think you'd enjoy that opportunity too much," Will murmurs in response; it's the best he can come up with. The elevator dings, doors sliding open and Will breezes past Hannibal, but is then left to wait until he's led to their room.

The door is unlocked, Hannibal allowing him to enter first, of course, and Will is quickly dropping his bag on the bed and shrugging off his coat. He hangs up the jacket and begins working on stripping off his wet clothing in the middle of the large luxurious room.

He takes in the lavish interior as he manages to finally free himself of his shirt which is hung on the back of a chair. Next, he's unbuttoning his dress pants and wiggling them down. There's really no dignified way to do this and Will is left cursing under his breath as he finally steps out of the pants. He's chilled, trembling, goosebumps rising on his flesh as he pulls off his socks.

* * *

Once, being delicate had been an option. Will had been withdrawn and hopeful, bordering on shy. His edges had been rough and he'd snapped and pushed back, unwilling to allow anyone else to get too close to him. The proverbial wounded dog. Yet Hannibal had waited, patient, fed him scraps and bits of attention until Will had started to trust the approach of his hand. Honey versus vinegar at its finest.

Jack had sent Will racing back to Hannibal's corner, wounded, in need of an affection he'd never been privy to before. He'd allowed himself to be wined and dined, had awkwardly attempted to clean up his rough edges, and Hannibal often found him wondering how things would have changed had he offered Will his bed then. Eager to please, bordering on desperate, yet hiding the darkness inherent within himself in an effort to put on his best face for Hannibal. It would have been pleasant for a while, perhaps, but Will could not have sustained himself within that bubble of personality.

Hannibal had implicated him and the betrayal had harshly etched Will's soft lines away. He'd gone from soft painting to carved stone, his edges sharp and raw and desperate. The pendulum had swung in the other way, and Will had become angry but masked, guarded, reflecting Hannibal's control back at him. The painting Will had been may have been beautiful, but paintings were simple to destroy. Solid, carved stone was not. 

It had been skillful enough to fool him. That is one thing Hannibal cannot allow himself the luxury to forget. So now, testing Will's waters and finding them thick as concrete, shoving back at him, Hannibal may be irritated but he cannot deny the relief he feels at seeing  _Will_ again. He is angry, belligerent, parasitic, and brash. His farce of cool, confident control had not been a mask, but it  _had_ been affected. In a way Hannibal is sad to see it go; their conversations had been wonderful. But now, seeing this man before him, Hannibal's sentiment for him has not changed. He may be livid with this creature, but so too does he need him.

Hannibal wonders if he has ever known Will Graham as he is until this moment. Another part of him wonders if this  _is_ Will. There is no way to know; he is skilled in deception.

Yet small things poke through. When Hannibal responds, his voice low, there is no masking the flare of heat in Will's eyes, nor the flush to his skin. He looks almost stricken for a moment, breathless, his lips parting enticingly and his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably under the lights above them. Perhaps Will is blind to his desire but Hannibal is not. He silently files this away, and hums a soft, almost mocking note in response to Will's statement.

"I've made no secret of that tonight, I believe. Had anyone else attempted to do to me what you did tonight, they would have died on the spot."

It's simple. Hannibal casts Will a silent look that is the punctuation needed after that statement. The implication is clear. Will is his exception, and so to does Will compromise him.

They leave the elevator when the doors open, Will hastily darting ahead. Perhaps it is an attempt to clear his mind; Hannibal cares little. He merely takes his time and when he arrives at the door, Hannibal unlocks and opens it for Will, ever polite. Will breezes past him again and Hannibal merely follows, closing the door and locking it behind them.

The room is nice, luxurious, though nowhere near the level of finery Hannibal is used to. He glances at the warm cream walls and the flowing drapery over the windows. There's a white fireplace with fine etchings into the mantle and a large modern bureau tucked in back near the window overlooking the city. Two white chairs sit in front of it, but of course Will merely throws his bag to the bed. Hannibal watches, frowning, and sets his own down on the closest chair pointedly.

Admittedly he is not expecting Will to suddenly begin undressing but Hannibal only stands and watches for a moment before he turns away and begins to do the same. He's much slower, sliding his sodden coat off to hang up in the bureau (though not before removing the bullets, phones, and knife, which he sets secretly within the drawer of a nearby dresser) and then begins to work on his own clothes. He hangs his suit jacket and vest up separately on hangers in order to dry properly, and by the time he begins to work on the buttons of his cuffs, Will is wiggling out of his dress slacks.

Hannibal hesitates for only a moment, fingers still on his buttons. He allows himself a single moment to look Will over with Will's back turned, studying the long line of his back, shifting muscles, and the surprising muscles apparent in his legs. Will holds himself in, drowning himself in his clothes; Hannibal had merely assumed him slight or frail. That Will is  _not_ sends a frisson of interest and pleasure through him. He had seen Will in his undershirt and boxers before, but it is remarkable how even those had hidden his beauty. Hannibal wets his lips without thinking, and only after Will's socks have been removed does he finally speak, cutting in before Will can remove his boxers. While he's suddenly found himself plunged into intimacy with this man, Hannibal has not lost his manners.

"The hotel offers robes if you would like to change into something more comfortable," he says simply, finally unbuttoning his cuffs and getting a start on his dress shirt, parting the fabric without shame. He has no qualms with his body, nor with Will's gaze upon him. "Or perhaps you would enjoy a shower before bed. You're chilled."

* * *

Hannibal has seen him in various states of undress so Will doesn't particularly care that he's practically stripping in his vicinity. He just doesn't want to be in soggy wet clothing any more. It's not much of an appealing striptease, Will mostly struggling with removing the soppy articles of clothing, but perhaps Hannibal enjoys it anyway. Will resists looking up to see if he's being watched, but he assumes Hannibal has snuck a few lingering glances (he probably would if their situations were reversed, as he's not seen much of Hannibal dressed down or undressed for that matter). 

Here, in the most expensive hotel Will has stayed in, they begin their journey. Will's first deception is out in the open, but his latest simmers under the surface. It's a dangerous gamble. Under Hannibal's obvious devotion, his mutated love, there's anger and hurt, enough that Hannibal considered killing him. Will doubts that it would be the last time they both thought of ending each other's lives. He's not going to walk on eggshells though. Not for Hannibal. He doesn't have to behave and play nice. Not anymore.

When Hannibal speaks up, Will's hands are on the elastic band of his boxers and he looks over to the other man. He's been divested of his coat, suit jacket and vest. Will looks at him, at Hannibal's wet messy hair, undone cuffs, shirt half unbuttoned and wearing a damnable placid expression.

Hannibal is... Something exotic. It almost feels forbidden, maybe it's the age gap, their socioeconomic differences, gender? Will doesn't know. Hannibal in love with him... The Chesapeake Ripper running off with him. It sounds all wrong. It  _is_ all wrong, yet here they are and here he is, walking over to Hannibal, bringing them closer.

Will pushes Hannibal's hands away and takes over the task of unbuttoning the shirt. His hands shake, but he firmly attributes that to being cold. It's harder than Will would like it to be, much more challenging than doing his own shirt, the buttons less forgiving, but he wants to keep Hannibal guessing. He reaches the section of the shirt that's still tucked in and debates a moment before yanking it out of Hannibal's pants and finishing the job.

"You could shower with me," Will suggests, his voice sounds more uncertain than he'd like it to be. Will would like to be confident, nonchalant even, but he feels his nerves clawing at him at the possibility of being rejected.

* * *

Hannibal stands unashamed but calm, his tone reflecting his posture. The evening has been a mix of a great many emotions, from raw, bitter betrayal to near-snarling passion. This is unmistakably the calm before the storm, though where the lighting will strike, not even Hannibal knows right now. All he can do for the moment is control this second, this interaction, and while there is residual heat from their exchange in the elevator, Hannibal has the power to control that as well.

His suggestion is mild, catching Will's attention. His expression remains unchanged even as Will turns to face him and Hannibal is gifted a look at his torso in his peripheral vision. He doesn't look. Not yet. Will looks conflicted for only a moment before something seems to settle behind his eyes and Hannibal is silent as Will closes the distance between them. He doesn't step back, allowing Will to come to him, and after a moment's hesitation, he allows his hands to drop away as Will turns his focus on the buttons of his shirt.

It is markedly intimate and Hannibal is not immune, a shadow of curiosity and desire flickering briefly behind his eyes before he blinks it away. Will's attention is on the buttons, likely far smaller than he's used to and his struggle is clear. Hannibal doesn't lift a hand to help, looking down at Will's hands as they shake with the effort. His skin is chilled even this close, and damp. Hannibal can see gooseflesh and Will's hair is a wild, tangled mess so close like this.

He breathes Will in without attempting to be subtle, taking in the scent of sex and stress and blood. It's a good scent on him. Hannibal says nothing, merely waiting, expectant as Will's fingers drop to the next button and then the next. When Will hesitates, Hannibal merely looks at him - at the uncertain flicker behind his eyes and the calculating weight - before Will suddenly jerks his shirttails from his slacks and allows the shirt to hang open, parted.

Will's suggestion is a surprise, but after a moment Hannibal finds himself wondering if it really is, or if this is simply the next expected step to this evening. He considers what might happen were he to say no, for Will's behavior in the lobby and the elevator, and his attitude and rudeness thus far have been  _quite_ trying and presumptuous. Then Hannibal registers the uncertainty in Will's voice and his resolve eases.

He merely looks down at Will, at the almost nervous cast to his features, and says nothing, allowing Will to struggle with his desire to avoid eye contact until the silence grows too great. He remains still, arms at his sides, and only when Will finally drags his gaze up high enough to meet Hannibal's eyes (and not merely a convenient place near his forehead) does he speak.

"I could. The question is whether or not I  _should_. Do you believe you have done anything to earn that right?" Hannibal asks calmly, his tone void of judgement, like he's legitimately asking Will if he has.

Hannibal considers him silently and allows his gaze to obviously rake down over Will's body before he looks back at his eyes. This is hardly a situation even he knows how to properly handle. No one has ever fooled him so beautifully before, and no one has ever  _taken_ from him before.

Hannibal wets his lips. Then he reaches out simply and touches Will's forearm. He's quiet as he slides his hand down to where Will's hand rests and then he moves it over to his dress slacks, the knees still clearly damp and dirty from the road. He places Will's hand at his belt, holds it there for a pointed moment, and then allows his own hand to fall away as he reaches up to gracefully shrug his shirt from his shoulders. What Will lacks in confidence, Hannibal makes up for in droves, tastefully showing solid muscle and broad shoulders.

"You have been quite rude tonight, Will. What's to be done about that?" Hannibal merely arches a delicate eyebrow and waits.

* * *

Will could have bypassed Hannibal completely and headed to the bathroom to shower by himself. He probably should have; Hannibal would have let him. It would have been simpler. Safer. Easier. There's no logical reason for Will to have walked over and started undressing Hannibal. Yes, he's curious about their dynamic, about the push and pull between them, but surely some space would have been a good idea. Not just for him, but for both of them. It's been a volatile night and there's no real foundation between them. They're on uneven ground; each step holds the potential to turn out to be a misstep and neither one of them want to fumble or fall in front of the other.

Where Hannibal had once been familiar and stable (a brilliant performance), there's now unpredictability. Will's suggestion that they shower is met with a sharp silence. It ticks on, weighing heavily and increasing Wills nerves until he gives in and meets Hannibal's eyes. It's uncomfortable and Will tenses. Hannibal's words illustrate that Will's not the only one who's decided that playing nicely was a thing of the past. Apparently showering with Hannibal is considered to be a fucking  _right_ that he needs to  _earn?_

Will frowns, eyebrows furrowing. Hannibal's tone may not sound condescending, but his words are enough. He's given a brief reprieve from direct eye contact for Hannibal looks over his nearly naked body. A tug of doubt pulls at him, feeling self-conscious about his body under what he's perceiving as possible scrutiny.

Will has no idea how to respond so he says nothing. Does nothing. He stands like an idiot, feeling uncomfortable in his own skin and wishing that he'd, for once in his life, chosen the simpler course of action instead of this. (Whatever this is.) Hannibal sees fit to touch his arm and relocate his hand to the belt. It's obvious enough that the doctor is encouraging Will to continue with undressing him.

The problem is, Will doesn't feel very encouraged. Smoothly, Hannibal shrugs off the dress shirt, seeming to remain still at ease amidst Will's discomfort. It only accentuates their differences. Being called rude doesn't help matters either (Will knows what Hannibal usually did to those labeled as that). He's not scared, but he is uncertain and it's enough for him to pull his hand off of Hannibal's belt.

It had been a mistake. A stupid one. Weariness hits him hard, both physically and emotionally. Will hasn't been sleeping well for quite some time and he feels like exhaustion has just snowballed and smacked him in the face. The high from his decision to both hurt and run away with Hannibal, the call with Alana and what took place on the road between them has evaporated. He doesn't have the energy to engage in quips or whatever verbal exchange Hannibal is expecting of him.

"Just nevermind," Will mutters in defeat, turning quickly and stalking off to the bathroom. His earlier confidence is apparently mercurial, abandoning him and replaced with crippling fear that he can't pull this off, that he can't keep up with Hannibal and he's going to be found out. (Hannibal has decades pretending and acting, he's only had months...)

By the time he gets to the bathroom and flicks the light on he's be broken out into a nervous sweat and visibly trembling. He grips the counter of the sink, but a moment later his clammy hands come to his face and he rubs roughly, trying in vain to pull himself together.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he mumbles to himself (if only he believed it).

The problem is...  Will needs the old Hannibal, the one he trusted and opened up to - his friend and therapist. His cut stings and it's enough of a distraction that he immediately seeks more of it, taking a nail and scratching at it repeatedly, eventually reopening it in the process.

* * *

There is a particular elegance to Will's distress, something unfathomable and vulnerable that Hannibal watches bloom to life on Will's features. It has been a long day, a long few months, if he's being truly honest, and Will is not the only one left unsteady and uncertain of his footing. What Hannibal had been convinced of once has been shattered. The man he'd believed he'd known had been nothing but a farce and he's as livid as he is hurt, though only one of these emotions he feels is acceptable. Hannibal is not a man to feel  _pain_ but the moment he'd smelled Freddie Lounds on Will, the crushing hurt had nearly ripped the breath from his lungs. The realization has not faded, and every moment with Will is a gamble. He needs Will by his side but at present, he doesn't like it. Will had eventually come clean, but without remorse.

He'd merely  _expected_ Hannibal's forgiveness without offering an apology and as Hannibal looks down at Will's uncertainty, at the vulnerability, he considers for a moment what it would be like to crush it. To take Will at his most genuine and shatter him apart the way Will had done to him. It sends a vicious satisfaction through him, and perhaps part of that registers, for Will's expression becomes less and less sure, his scent edging closer to distress, and when he finally pulls away, his expression suddenly heavy and exhausted, Hannibal allows himself to enjoy the defeat etched into the lines of Will's face.

What had he expected? Hannibal ponders over this as Will turns and quickly moves away, the lingering memory of his discomfort soothing something within. After the betrayal, after Will's attempt at dominance, after his  _rudeness_ and his gall, and after his churlish behavior in the lobby, had he expected Hannibal to be  _delighted_ by the attention? Will knows what he is, and who he is, and Hannibal had not thought him a fool.

... he's not a fool. Will Graham is anything but. The thought strikes and instead of falling away under the force of Hannibal's satisfaction, instead it sticks to him long enough for Hannibal to properly consider it. A man capable of not only fooling Jack Crawford but Hannibal himself? A man willing to slide on a mask and play nice with a man he'd suspected of being  _The Chesapeake Ripper?_ A man who had likely fed Hannibal Randall Tier instead of cuts of Freddie Lounds, perfect and cunning in his deception? Will Graham is no fool. He's perhaps as calculating as Hannibal is, which means that in this moment, Will is either attempting to wear another mask (though Hannibal doubts this, for defeat is far harder to fake than interest) or he's being genuine.

Hannibal frowns curiously and closes his eyes, listening to the sounds coming from the bathroom. He can hear the unsteady cadence to Will's breaths - panic - and soft words he cannot make out. Hannibal considers this knowledge, thoughtful, and tries to decide whether or not he  _cares_.

It's a near thing. In the end, though he believes it endlessly foolish, his curiosity wins out. Hannibal is silent as he walks over to the bathroom door - which Will had apparently forgotten to lock - and opens it just enough to glance within. Will is stood over the sink, his hands pressed against his face. In this moment, he doesn't know Hannibal is watching, and the panic and vulnerability is genuine. Hannibal watches Will's hands rub at his face, then linger at the cut on his cheek. He's casually interested as Will's nails catch it  _intentionally_ and he watches as Will scratches at it, reopening the wound until blood again runs freely. It is telling, and while Hannibal's ire remains,  _he_ is perhaps a fool when it comes to this man.

"Respect and consideration go both ways, Will," he says softly, aware his presence had not been known.

He pushes the bathroom door open the rest of the way but makes no move to walk in. He merely stands and watches, expression blank but not unfeeling. He's as calm as he can manage, and his voice is soft.

"You cannot behave so recklessly,  _delight_ in it, take risks that I would kill lesser men for, and then retreat with your tail between your legs when I do not bend to your shifting whims. Your actions have consequences, as do my own. I care for you, but that care does not make you immune. Were you anyone else, I would have killed you tonight. For your betrayal alone, yes, but also for daring to shove me to my knees. The only reason I didn't was because I  _allowed_ it." His words are harsh but necessary, but Hannibal's tone remains soft, a man attempting to soothe an injured dog.

"For a moment, think back. Think back to the moment you  _realized,_ " Who Hannibal was, what he'd done, that Hannibal had set him up... "Had I dared to run away with you then without showing remorse, to shove you to your knees, and to call Jack to  _gloat_ at your expense... would you have been receptive to speaking with me as a friend that evening?"

Hannibal waits only long enough for those words to sink in, then he allows himself a small sigh. He finally takes a step into the bathroom and reaches out to open a drawer on the vanity, searching until he finds a washcloth, and then leans over to wet it in the sink.

"I am not an unreasonable man, even in my anger. And I  _am_ irate with you. If you wish something from me,  _ask_. It should come as little surprise that I have no desire to be manipulated by you. Especially after this evening."

Hannibal offers Will the cloth, glancing at him in the mirror, at the drawn expression of his face and the blood running down his jaw. His own expression softens, but only just. There's a heaviness to it.

"Here. Instead of saying 'you could shower with me', a more genuine request would have been: ' _Would you_ shower with me?'" He sighs. "I will leave you to your shower if you so wish... But I am also willing to give you a second chance, if you so desire it. It is your choice."

Hannibal takes a single step back to give Will his space. He stands calmly, arms by his sides, as poised half-naked as he is in his full suits. His belt remains clasped, exactly as Will had left it. This is Will's choice.

* * *

In his panic, Will's not aware of Hannibal having made his way over. Will stops his self-harm, tip of his index finger crimson, with blood underneath his nail. He pulls his hand away, eyes flitting between the red smear and Hannibal's impassive expression as he looks Will over. He almost feels like a child being caught misbehaving. Will wants to laugh at the thought, but he's sure he would sound hysterical. Then again, when Hannibal had asked him what was to be done about his rude behavior, a sliver of Will was close to saying something along the lines of him being a bad boy now and needing punishment. 

Hannibal's voice is soft, but his words are not. Hannibal is not here to play doctor with him, or perhaps he is, but of a different variety. Hannibal is not looking to offer him small gracious smiles as he patches Will up to send send him on his way with a pat on his on his back. Oh no, Hannibal is here to to be exacting, to disinfect and debride if necessary. His words  _are_ necessary, part warning and explanation. Will’s actions have consequences.

For even though Hannibal is a monster, he knows  _how_ to be a good friend. It's horrible to know this for Will. Hannibal knows what components are necessary (respect, consideration, the ability to empathize - what a joke). Likely, Hannibal on his worst days was a better (fake) friend than Will on his best. It's not a nice realization to have. Will may miss the ignorant days of the past when he felt he had an ally - someone in his corner for once - but he doesn't truly want it  _now_. Blindfolds have been removed, there's no returning, once broken, nothing gathers itself up. 

He's shaking less as Hannibal artfully presents their scenario in reverse... If Hannibal had been acting brazen, waltzing up to propose they run away amidst Will crumbling from the horror of discovering the truth of Hannibal. (Will still doesn't believe the situations are truly of the same caliber. Hannibal's betrayal had been a grand abuse of power while he considers his partnership with Jack to be  _lesser_ ; it's not a case of 'Even Steven' between them, not yet. Hannibal still is owed a reckoning.) But the illustration does what Hannibal intends - it has Will pausing and considering Hannibal's point of view over the night. Will knows he's been a shit. Yes, some of that should be expected, but he knows he's pushed a few too many buttons.

Hannibal steps into the bathroom finally and Will tenses. He's not touched or hit, Hannibal instead finding and wetting a washcloth for him. Will takes it, but makes no move to do anything with it. He's rapt, hanging on every word, searching to understand, for some semblance of foundation to be found because, even now, he looks to Hannibal for guidance. (This is telling, but Will ignores the message.)

He's told to  _ask_. It's really quite simple. Nothing complex about it, but it's setting up a framework for going forward. Hannibal likes manners, to be considered... Will can work with that. Despite being chided, Will feels calmer. He places the washcloth down on the counter. He can be bloody for this. Raw and exposed. He's got another chance and he won't mess this one up.

Will steps to Hannibal, the distance that Hannibal had created moments before vanishing.

"I'm... Not very good with people anyway and here you have this - whatever we are - complicated and starting new - trying to learn each other again... And I've been feeling more uncertain than I'd like," Will begins slowly, feeling his words out as he tries to maintain eye contact. "I'm sorry. It'll happen again, I'm sure, but I'll try and be more considerate in the meantime."

He swallows. He had thought apologizing would be harder, but it's actually not. Will brings up his bloody finger and presses it against Hannibal's lips. He doesn't push in this time, just smears his blood along Hannibal's plump bottom lip, painting it in a streak. This action could get him into trouble, but he doesn't mean it to be disrespectful.  

"Would you shower with me? I'd... I'd like it."

* * *

For a long few moments, Hannibal isn't certain what Will's decision will be. His words have not been kind, but he is not a kind man. He never has been. This is them at their simplest. Will is going to either accept Hannibal's words or he's going to reject them. He will either step towards Hannibal or draw away. Whatever happens, Will has made his choice.

There is no leaving, and there is no second chance at Will's choice. Whether or not he likes it, he's chosen Hannibal, and there is no going back. Not now. Not after Alana. Either Will is going to walk closer and put his hands on Hannibal's belt again, or he's going to likely curse and withdraw and Hannibal will simply retire to the main room and get into bed. His hair is wet from the rain and his slacks need to be washed, but he doesn't  _require_ a shower to warm up.

When Will turns to him, Hannibal merely lifts his chin. He doesn't try and guess Will's response, for Will's expression is caught, almost torn. He looks as confused as he does desperate, and as chided as he does restless. Hannibal simply waits, and when Will finally places the washcloth down on the counter, Hannibal allows a thin thread of tension to leave his shoulders. Will has made his choice.

He's quiet as Will steps over, and he gives him the courtesy of meeting his eyes when Will tries to make eye contact. Hannibal is expecting nothing but Will's hands on his belt, perhaps a soft murmur of the words he'd given him to use. He's not expecting Will to speak for himself, his voice low, hesitant, bordering on awkward.

He sounds in that moment like he had so many months ago, awkwardly explaining that he'd not be good company in one of Hannibal's dinner parties, and the quick stab of nostalgia for a simpler time sweeps through Hannibal like an explosive round. He swallows it back with a slow, careful breath. Will's betrayal is sharp and primed yet, but Hannibal cannot fully fault him his actions. Jack Crawford is a manipulative presence and Hannibal is aware that Will still views Hannibal's own actions as a betrayal. In a way this makes them even.

Hannibal listens carefully, allowing the granite to leave his expression. While he's still silently livid with this man, he is not unfeeling. He will not bitterly shove away a genuine attempt to explain. He can respect that Will knows himself enough to know he will do this again. What he  _isn't_ expecting is the apology, nor the way Will moves. It's slow enough that Hannibal could move away were he so inclined, but he doesn't. He looks down and watches as Will lifts his hand, catching the sight of the blood still slightly wet upon one of his fingers, and when it touches itself to his lower lip, Hannibal tenses almost imperceptibly.

Yet instead of Will pushing his finger into Hannibal's mouth (as Hannibal expects him to, given the scope of his recklessness throughout the evening) he merely rests it there, pointed. Then he brushes some of the blood onto Hannibal's lip. It is... respectful. Hannibal considers him in silence for a moment, the scent of Will's blood light and teasing upon Hannibal's senses.

He does nothing at first, thoughtful, his expression unguarded. Then, finally, Hannibal lifts one of his hands to Will's wrist. He's careful as he wraps his hand around it, his grip firm, and draws Will's hand just a little higher. His tongue flicks out to catch the taste of Will's blood upon his own lip at first and he savors it, still thoughtful. A pagan god contemplating an offering, with the power to bless or to kill. That Will had held himself back, had merely made that small gesture and left the rest up to Hannibal to decide says it all.

At least for this moment, he's heard and  _understood_. He keeps his response silent, choosing instead to carefully lean in enough to take the tip of Will's finger between his lips. There is no scrape of teeth, no violence, merely the press of his tongue and gentle suction. It's clear what this is alluding to, and this time Hannibal slowly guides Will's hand closer, taking his finger in deeper. His teeth gently press but don't bite, and he cleans the blood from Will's fingertip and under his nail, carefully swallowing it down without breaking eye contact. It's intimate.

"Yes," Hannibal says simply, as soon as he moves Will's hand back. Instead of letting go of it, though, he simply draws it down slowly to his belt, expectant but not forceful. "As would I."

He gives Will's wrist a small squeeze. "I don't fault you your uncertainty, Will. You are... struggling. In this, perhaps, we both are. I do not believe either of us were expecting what transpired tonight." The running away, being shoved to the road, the call...

"I wish you genuine. Your bitterness is part of that. Your recklessness the same. Keeping Alana on the phone was not. In time, we will learn, but our foundations are unsteady. In time we will stabilize."

* * *

Can Will trust this version of Hannibal? He is a prolific killer who loves him (for whatever reason and that should really say it all), but he also is hurt and simmering with anger. Will, however, has been suffering for far longer, his grudge festering and growing like a cancerous tumor inside. He's likely already poisoned by his own bitterness and desire for revenge and he's barely even begun  _this_ plot to destroy Hannibal. Still, there needs to be some level of trust between them because right now they're on the edge of a knife, feeling out each other cautiously and perhaps one wrong move is all it takes for the knife to slip (the cut on Will's cheek demonstrates just that). 

Will hears himself talk and he's completely graceless, nearly blundering, but he forces himself to get through it. He's in his thirties and he still has trouble talking about his fucking feelings and insecurities. (Maybe he'd get free therapy - such a great perk...) An apology is just words, actions always speaking louder, but it's a step in the right direction. From Hannibal's expression softening, Will knows that his feeble attempt is both appreciated and hadn't been expected. See, he can compromise.

The bloody fingertip brought to Hannibal's lip is a risk. Until this, his dick had been the only other body part uninvitingly introduced to Hannibal's face, so Will doesn't push the digit inside. Will doesn't have to ask for he knows that his blood is a sensual gift to Hannibal. A bizarre part of him wants to taste Hannibal in this way, too, a desire to know everything about Hannibal - past, present, future. (Will shoves this urge down.) Hannibal's hand comes to his wrist and his own finger is moved higher and met with a swipe of a tongue. Will swallows again and somehow manages to not make a sound (it feels like an accomplishment).

But, as to be expected, Hannibal doesn't back down. No, he goes further, taking the tip of Will's finger inside his mouth and  _sucking._ Will clenches his jaw, set on holding back any undignified sounds because he’s already got off tonight and it's just his fucking finger tip in Hannibal's mouth--

But when Hannibal dares to continue on, bringing Will's hand closer and his finger in  _deeper_ , Will gasps. Teeth graze along his skin and he feels Hannibal cleaning the blood from underneath his nail. This might be single most erotic nonsexual thing Will has ever experienced and the entire time Hannibal's eyes haven't left him. Will's both hot and chilled, flushed and eyes wide as he watches Hannibal, rapt.

It's over too quickly and Hannibal answers smoothly, relocating Will's hand to the belt again. Will stands dumbly as Hannibal continues on speaking, being logical. Reasonable. Collected. Frankly, it pisses him off. He's shaken by what's just happened, not quite half-hard, and Hannibal acts unaffected. Lashing out over it isn't an option, so Will glances down at the task he needs to now do.

He listens. He understands. Alana being privy to their private moment had been the final nail in the coffin - a great offense to Hannibal. Will's other hand comes up and he fumbles with the clasp a moment before finally undoing it and working the accessory off. If it were his, Will would have dropped it to the floor, but it's not. It's Hannibal's. He cares about this kind of thing so Will places it on the counter beside the sink.

The button on the slacks is harder in this position. It feels a little silly to be struggling with such mundane tasks and reminds him of past battles with unhooking bra clasps. (He'd secretly hoped he would at least have an edge here as they were men's clothings, but no, of course not.) The more he fails, the more agitated he gets and his hands start to shake from nerves. Thankfully, he doesn't have to ask for help and does eventually pop the button out. Will is all too grateful that sliding the zipper down goes without a hitch and he sighs in relief.

Without thought or a plan, Will's hands reach out and grasp at Hannibal's waist. His thumbs rub at the jut of hip bones. Hannibal feels firm, obviously lacking the familiar feminine curve. It's not unpleasant, though. Will knows what he needs to do - he needs to slip Hannibal's trousers down - and he should probably also respond to what Hannibal last said, but instead, he's backing away and diverting his eyes as he removes his hands.

"You can--" he begins before catching himself and correcting with: "Can you finish that, uh, please? The shower... I'm going to start it."

Will's shaking his head at himself as he turns away and grabs at the complimentary bottles of whatever. He sets them along the bath and starts the shower. Will's still in his boxers but he makes record time in ripping them off and stepping into the tub. He doesn't pull the curtains fully closed. The stream of hot water rushing over his skin has a groan slipping out and his tension wanting to evaporate. Although relaxing, Will's still on alert for Hannibal joining him in the shower. He tilts his head back under the water, closing his eyes as he slicks his hair back.

Trying to distract from his jittery nerves, Will blurts out, "This is all new for me, you know. I'm straight. Uh--" He stops when a fully naked Hannibal climbs into the shower and closes the curtains.

* * *

Hannibal is quite aware of the effect he has on Will. He does nothing without being aware of the reason behind it, and Will's silent struggle to remain unaffected is lovely to watch. It does what Hannibal intended it to do: it takes Will's mind immediately off of his panic and onto something else, something visceral and simple. Instead of being lost in his own mind, he's been lost in Hannibal's boldness, in the warm press of his tongue and the reminder of what had happened not two hours ago. 

The taste of his blood lingers long after Hannibal removes his finger and for a moment Hannibal considers whether or not it would be appropriate to lean over and clean the rest of the blood on Will's face in the same manner, but this is one urge he resists. He's far too caught by the look on Will's face, on the fetching high flush to his cheeks and the way his eyes remain wide in an erotic surprise. He looks beautiful like this (and again Hannibal finds himself silently overwhelmed that this is now something he can  _do_ ) and it means Will’s focused on Hannibal anew when Will says his piece.

He catches a faint hint of bitterness behind Will's eyes (though Hannibal suspects that has something to do with the heady bouquet of arousal he can smell on the air) but instead of lashing or acting out, Will drops his gaze down to where Hannibal has directed his hand to his belt. After only a moment of slight indecision, Will acquiesces and his other hand comes up to work at the clasp.

He's slightly unsteady, but he manages quickly and Hannibal simply watches him, silent. This is as much an apology as Will's verbal one, and he watches with a soft, pleased sound in the back of his throat as Will removes his belt and sets it aside safely instead of dropping it. It is consideration and Hannibal takes note of it, even as Will's hands move to the button of his slacks.

This Will has trouble with. Hannibal simply watches, not lifting a hand to help but he also doesn't say anything, doesn't rush Will. He can sense Will's growing frustration at taking so long but Hannibal merely waits, gaze rapt on what he can see of Will's expression. The button eventually opens and his zipper is quick to follow and Will's soft sigh borders on erotic for a moment. Hannibal wets his lips but is not so gauche as to say anything. Still, when Will reaches over to grip his waist, Hannibal straightens just a little, surprised, but Will's touch is not unwelcome.

He catalogs the press of Will's fingers - rough and strong from years of working with his hands - and gives himself permission to enjoy the sweep of his thumb over his hip, but this, it appears, is where Will's limits begin. It's good to know. For instead of lowering Hannibal's trousers, his nerves seem to double and Hannibal watches as Will awkwardly withdraws, eyes downcast. Hannibal isn't concerned. No, instead, he finds himself pleased, particularly when Will catches himself in the beginning of a manipulation and then hastily fixes it. He's polite, if awkward, and while Hannibal doesn't smile, his gaze is approving.

"Of course, Will." They both are learning limits.

As Will turns (distressed, clearly struggling; Hannibal enjoys it) and takes the bottles of shampoo, Hannibal silently finishes the task Will had not. He slides his trousers down and steps out of them, folding them carefully to set over the vanity. He sets a hand on the counter and removes his socks and then stands to remove the last article of clothing. Before he does, Will's movement catches his eye and Hannibal allows himself the pleasure of a quick glance.

He watches Will strip himself of his boxers, imprints the image in his mind, and allows Will the comfort of stepping into the shower to hide. Hannibal takes his time removing the rest of his clothes, and finds and hangs up both complimentary robes for after the shower. He ensures both towels are obvious and silently counts to ten to allow Will to settle before joining him.

He's already closing the distance when Will speaks, his voice pure nerves. For a moment he considers allowing Will more time, but decides against it. He will push, carefully, test Will's limits. He steps into the shower, silently delighting in the way Will's voice cuts off in surprise, and closes the shower curtain beside them. There, Hannibal allows himself a quick moment to simply enjoy the sight of Will like this.

He is not a gauche man and he is unused to feeling honest desire on this level, but Will is breathtaking. For all his manipulation and for all Hannibal's bitterness and anger, he cannot deny his attraction. Will is a handsome man, his shoulders far broader than Hannibal expected, his muscles more pronounced. His legs are long and shapely, and Hannibal knows intimately that he is not lacking in other ways. Hannibal allows himself to drink his fill, admiring the almost coquettish fall of Will's wet hair over his forehead before he steps in closer, enough to share the stream of water without bringing himself flush to Will's back. Hannibal can be considerate when respected, after all.

"I see. Are you uncomfortable with the notion of being attracted to another man?" he asks casually. "You did not seem to have the same reservations earlier this evening."

Hannibal pauses to allow that to sink in, then continues. "Sexuality, like other types of attraction, can sometimes be fluid. I care little for labels. I enjoy sex. I do not crave it.

“Did not," Hannibal amends after a beat, for Will's request for honesty has not escaped Hannibal's memory. "I am... unused to sexually desiring another so strongly."

He doesn't confirm that he  _does_ desire Will, for he hardly believes he needs to.

Hannibal has always been a man above his desires. He's careful, controlled. The thought of sleeping with the same gender doesn't bother him. The thought of his desires eclipsing his reason does. Omnisexual, perhaps by times leaning towards asexual, Hannibal cares little. What he cares about is that his desire for Will Graham has transcended his reason. It is... an unsettling, precarious, thrilling position to be in.

He wets his lips and then reaches over for the bottle of shampoo Will had gathered up earlier. He holds it up just enough for Will to see. "May I?"

* * *

Facing the showerhead, there's no way to know if Hannibal is looking at him, but he figures the man is. Will knows he probably would be if their situation were reversed. Although, really, Will's seen a lot less of the doctor than Hannibal has of Will - mental instability paired with encephalitis had a way of stripping Will down. They're both curious about each other, inside and outside -  _everything_ \- and it should be a daunting realization, but there's also a sick fascination that comes with exploring the unknown. As close as they may be, there's still much that remains hidden from each other. Will wants to discover the enigma that is Hannibal Lecter and for the first time in a long while, Will is going to let himself indulge his curiosity and learn him. 

He hadn't been lying - Will  _is_ straight. Well, at least he's always behaved in such a way until tonight. But it had been direct stimulation that had got him off, not Hannibal... (Right?) Will's always known Hannibal was decently attractive, but he'd never thought on it, at least not until recently, not until they'd been fucking planning on running off together like Bonnie and Clyde.

_‘Are you uncomfortable with the notion of being attracted to another man?’_

Will let's out a small huff or it might be a chuckle. That's one way of putting it, although it might be  _which man_ that's the bigger issue to Will. He doesn't say as much, but he feels like he possibly should have as Hannibal continues, pointing out that Will didn't seem to have much of a problem earlier. (Also true... But Will's emotions had been running high and he'd had Hannibal obeying him; he hadn't been caring about how crazy it was.)

He almost misses Hannibal's correction - that tense change from 'do not' to 'didn't.' Will feels a flicker of  _something_ about it. Pride? Smugness? Either way, it feels good to be desired, to be wanted. (To be special, to win over Hannibal despite the man's reason.) Far too good that Will doesn't particularly feel inclined to delve into the how's and why's of his sexuality. He'll leave that for later.

It's fairly customary for Will to be able to move past his insecurities when his ego has been stroked by praise, although it likely hadn't been Hannibal's intent. He eyes the small bottle of shampoo before turning around slowly and facing his shower companion. Will opens his mouth and then closes it. Blue eyes rake over Hannibal's larger naked form and Will, once again, swallows. Hannibal's physique has been hidden under layers of expensive tailored clothing, but now it's just skin and taut muscle with the addition of greying body hair. Distinctly masculine, but there's a sort of gracefulness to Hannibal, like a feline predator.

"Washed my hair earlier," he explains, taking the bottle from Hannibal and leaning down to exchange it with body wash instead. "Anyway, would rather have you..."

Will offers the small container to Hannibal. "Could you wash me instead?"

Will's half-hard erection is persisting for some reason, but he tries to ignore it. He is still antsy, pulse a little quicker than he likes, but he's not going shy away from this all.

* * *

The most Hannibal is expecting is a soft 'yeah' from Will, and even that is likely pushing his luck. His offer is bold but cannot possibly come as a surprise. Hannibal has not been upfront with his desire before and while he's made no move to confirm it even now, he has little doubt that Will knows. That Hannibal should want to touch him, that he should want to learn this man should come as no surprise.

Even so, given Will's insistence upon being straight (a definite possibility, though one he clearly has few qualms in testing) Hannibal feels it best to be polite, to ask, to offer a possibility and step back to allow Will to decide. It is a tactic not unlike the one Will himself uses to entice strays back to his home and the irony is not lost on Hannibal. Yet instead of answering or recoiling, Will chooses to surprise him.

Hannibal leans away just a bit, enough to allow Will the space required to turn around. It's a surprise; this is the last thing he expects. He watches, curious, as Will turns. For a moment it looks like Will is going to say something but then he catches sight of Hannibal properly for the first time and his mouth closes with a soft click of teeth. He's gracious, expression calm even if there's a light of satisfaction behind his eyes. Hannibal Lecter is a prideful man and he  _knows_ he looks good. His suits are not used as a mask, though many believe they are. No, his suits are used to accentuate, and Hannibal watches, pleased, as Will's eyes blatantly rake over his body.

He lifts his chin, proud, and as Will looks him over, so too does Hannibal allow himself a moment to gently trail his gaze down over Will's body. He's quicker with it for he'd already seen Will earlier, but he allows himself the enjoyment just the same.

When Will finally manages to find his voice, Hannibal looks back at him, curious. Will takes the bottle of shampoo from him and Hannibal's brow furrows only as long as it takes for Will to retrieve the body wash. Understanding registers and Hannibal once again looks Will over, contemplative. His gaze lingers only for a fraction of a second on Will's half-hard erection before he nods graciously and wets his lips - nothing more than a quick swipe of his tongue.

"Yes. It would be my pleasure."

Hannibal reaches back to take a washcloth from the shelves just outside of the shower and - taking great care not to invade Will's space - holds the white cloth under the spray until it's wetted properly. Pouring some of the body wash upon the cloth, Hannibal takes a moment to work it into a proper lather and then sets the bottle aside again, turning back to Will to slowly look him over. This time he makes no attempt at being subtle, though his expression holds both desire and a flicker of awe that Will is not only allowing this, but requesting it.

There is much that has happened this evening. Hannibal's knees are ever so slightly raw from the asphalt, his throat still setting up a pleasant ache though his voice has mostly recovered. The blood from Will's cut has been sluiced away by the water. This is merely another moment to add to that list. Perhaps there are reasons to decline. Tensions are high, Hannibal's anger and bitterness will not abate for quite some time, and Will's recklessness had bordered on lethal this evening. Yet when Hannibal reaches over to touch the cloth to Will's neck, it's initially tentative, as he's anticipating Will to recoil even now. It doesn't take long for Hannibal's touch to become sure.

He's quiet, enjoying the unique erotic intimacy of this moment even if his skin is not directly touching Will's. He washes from Will's neck to his shoulder, then takes Will's wrist in his free hand and draws his arm straight so that he can run the cloth over it.

"You enjoy the attention," Hannibal points out suddenly, his voice soft yet still seeming to almost echo after the soft sounds of the water hitting the bottom of the shower.

He looks at Will closely, as if able to look right through him. "You are uncomfortable with the notion of desiring another man, and yet you enjoy the attention paid to you. Tell me... does the thought of another man desiring you also make you feel uncomfortable?"

His tone is bordering on clinical, but there's a twist of genuine curiosity held within it as Hannibal trails the cloth back up and over Will's chest. His nails gently dig into Will's skin through the cloth, though not uncomfortably so, and he softens his touch when the cloth passes over one of Will's nipples on the way over his sternum.

"Or does the thought of being desired excite you?"

* * *

They've been together for hours now, but how much has really been said or worked out? Hannibal, of course, has talked more than Will. Will had done more speaking leading up to and including the altercation on the road. Will's level and depth of communication depends on if he's feeling brash or nervous. Alternating between the two extremes irritates him. He dislikes hearing himself stumble over his words like an idiot when he knows he's capable of speaking smoothly, even able to tease and challenge when in the right headspace, but they are on new footing, one in which he feels Hannibal is better equipped to deal with than he is.

But he's not the only one whose eyes are traveling over bared flesh. It's their own Adam and Eve moment in the Garden and glimpsing at each other's nakedness for the first time. Unlike that story they wouldn't be ashamed and run to hide. They're men, blatant in their appreciation and interest in each other's forms, and maybe that's why Will doesn't feel so bothered by this vulnerability - Hannibal's attention and gaze both means something and matters to him. (No, he doesn't want to dwell on that realization further.) 

It would have been wiser to simply wash himself or even allow Hannibal to wash his hair. Will knows he's taking an uncalculated risk, but the quicker he works through his own apprehension the better. It would be a crash course. Stumbling into new and closer intimacy will likely be a recurring theme for them, Will thinks. Yes,  _them_. There's no other way to sum it up. They're partners in this now. All they have is each other. Just the way Hannibal always wanted it.

Of course, Hannibal agrees with this request and takes the body wash. Will plans on ignoring his lower 'problem.' It should just go away. (That's what he's hoping, anyway.) He watches Hannibal grab a washcloth, wet it and work a lather out of the body wash. They both are watching each other, really. Will opens his mouth, feeling like something should be said to break this silence, but, again, he closes it, having no words for this moment.

It's then Will checks out, mind wandering to the image of Hannibal locked up and Will visiting him. (Their positions reversed.) It could have been one possible outcome if he had decided to stick with Jack. A part of him still wants to see Hannibal locked away. But... Would Hannibal still have looked at him the same way, with desire and fascination? Most likely not. (This bothers Will more than it should.)

The washcloth connecting with his skin has Will blinking and looking down, watching Hannibal's gentle movements. Will can't recall the last time someone ever washed him like this, but surely his mother had when he was a young child? It's strangely intimate, much more so than Will had been expecting. It's nice. He relaxes under the heat and touch, almost thinking he could be content in this. He's docile, allowing Hannibal to move him whichever way is necessary. But it's not meant to last. Will's reverie breaks when Hannibal chooses to talk.

It's not anything Will expects to hear, Hannibal's tone soft despite how  _sure_ his words are. Will squirms under the scrutiny of the older man's eyes, feeling like a bug trapped under a magnifying glass, but he tries to remain resolute in not looking away. It's no lie that he does, indeed, enjoy  _Hannibal's_ attention. He's definitely unsure about desiring another man (the bastard doesn't use his own name, but they both know who he's referring to.) Yes, it's hypocritical.

‘ _Tell me, does the thought of another man desiring you also make you feel uncomfortable?’_

Will frowns, his fingers fidgeting at his side. This is bordering on therapy and a part of him wants to get incredulous over it, but he can't bring himself to stop it. He does have to look away from Hannibal's eyes, choosing to watch again as the washcloth moves across his chest, a trail of bubbles in its wake. Will feels the hint of nails and it's-- (he doesn't know, but he kind of wants to feel it  _more_.) Nails, still softened by the cloth travel over a nipple and he bites his lip and trembles. The words that follow, the fucking question - if being desired makes him  _excited_  - has Will making a distressed pitchy sound. It's then that he realizes that he's only got  _harder_  from all of this. Whether it's the subject matter or Hannibal touching him, Will doesn't even know. 

This is dangerous. This isn't him in control at all. His breathing is ragged and Will licks at his lips for no reason other than out of nervousness. He feels a confusing mix of embarrassment and arousal that has him tense, caught between wanting to explore whatever this is and pulling away.

"I..."

It shouldn't be this difficult to talk; Hannibal isn't even teasing him or being cruel.

"Obviously it excites me," Will finally replies.

He reaches out and grasps Hannibal's arm that isn't washing him. Fingers wrap around the doctor's bicep and he holds tightly as if needing the stability.

Will shifts closer, careful to not jab Hannibal with his erection.

"It's your attention that I like... your desire," he murmurs, voice tight.

It hardly needs saying.

* * *

Hannibal knows precisely what he is doing. While he enjoyed the softer, serene expression on Will's face - one he intends to question Will over later, for he'd looked content in a way Hannibal had rarely seen - he wishes to place his hands against Will's mind, feel out a crack in the foundation, and give it a gentle push. There will be time for Will to enjoy this new space between them, time for him to soak up attention at his whim, but this is not one of those times. Tenderness is not a right after this evening. In time it will return, fed to Will piecemeal in the palm of Hannibal's hand as he sees fit.

For now, Hannibal's curiosity wins out, and this moment is carefully primed. He is careful to be tender - and thoroughly enjoys the relaxed expression on Will's face - and when he speaks, his words, while soft, are like a chisel to Will's rock. Lower Will's defenses, and sweep in. Will chips visibly, looking up at Hannibal, and something pleasant twists low in Hannibal's stomach. Despite this, he is still genuinely curious.

He watches Will as he speaks, mindful of the fidgeting of his fingers and the way Will's lips pull down into a frown. He's uncomfortable - perhaps not at being desired, but definitely at this line of questioning - and yet Hannibal misses little. Perhaps Will is not aware, but Hannibal cannot help  _but_ notice as blood rushes down to delicately fill out the swell of Will's cock. He hardens slightly under Hannibal's scrutiny but a quick glance proves that Will hasn't noticed.

Hannibal is briefly silent, watching as Will's eyes finally draw away from his own. Instead Will watches the pass of the washcloth over his chest, and perhaps the hint of Hannibal's nails is both curious and tentative because of this. He presses down with his nails and Will bites his lip in a way that makes Hannibal briefly wish to do it for him but he resists the urge. Will has always been wonderfully expressive, and like this, laid bare and emotionally drained from a long evening of emotional manipulation and adrenaline, Hannibal cannot help but find him beautiful.

He's still angry. He will be for quite some time. There's a bitter twist under his surface, something somewhat caustic, and yet it's soothed over by the genuine look on Will's face. And when Hannibal makes his last addition - asking if being desired makes Will feel  _excited -_ Will's soft sound is enough to make Hannibal's gaze darken ever so slightly.

Despite the arousal within, he's careful to keep himself under control. He's not hard, but he could be in moments were he so inclined.  _Will_ is harder than when Hannibal had last looked, and Hannibal hears his own breathing turn ragged. Despite this, Hannibal's touch is gentle and firm, trailing the cloth over each line of Will's ribs like a delicate accent of color on tanned skin.

He doesn't stop washing Will once, not even when Will's hand suddenly moves out to grasp Hannibal's arm. While the action earns him a mild look, Hannibal's hand doesn't stop. He merely trails the cloth lower, down along Will's right side where he follows the elegant slope of Will's hipbone down to where dark hair begins. There he pauses for only a second before moving the cloth back up, a small frisson of curiosity setting up inside.

He had not missed the way Will had reacted on the road with the gun deep in his mouth, nor the way Will had responded breathlessly after what Hannibal had said to him in the elevator. Just as he had not missed the way Will's cock had filled out just now despite his embarrassment. If he's correct... well. He'll find that out in time.

Will's answer - stepping closer, his voice beautifully tight with a distress Hannibal has to fight the urge to choke out of him - is enough to make him briefly wet his lips despite the spray of the shower.

"Yes, you  _are_ quite excited..." Hannibal says after a pointed pause.

His hand trails again over Will's chest, and while Hannibal finds temptation in the thought of raking the cloth again over the same nipple that had drawn the reaction before, he decides against it. He's curious, keeping his touch clinical and the look in his eyes more or less the same. He continues to wash Will, sliding his hand over to his other side to trail the cloth over his other nipple - again with nails. His voice is low, conversational.

"Tell me, Will, why is it you're aroused? Is it because of who I am, and what I've done?" Hannibal doesn't say it, but ' _The Chesapeake Ripper_ ' is implied. "Or is there no reason behind it? You simply can't help yourself? You implied you were uncomfortable at the thought of desiring another man."

Hannibal looks at him, ever curious, though likely for a different reason than Will believes. He drops his gaze pointedly for a moment and then looks back at Will's eyes.

"Perhaps you were correct. That  _does_ look quite uncomfortable."

* * *

While Hannibal may know what he's doing, Will is suspended in a state of indecision. He's always been stubborn, often operating under duress and simply enduring it (as seen in his dealings with Jack). But Will has also frequently excused himself from awkward situations. It's true that he's never been great at self-preservation, stretching himself thin far too often, but this is different. Although it definitely counts as an awkward situation on a few levels, Will feels curiously enticed. Hannibal is pulling the strings again while Will is floundering like a puppet, only able to respond and unaware of where the story is heading. Yet Will remains, a masochist perhaps, a slave to this thrumming tension between them.

The washcloth goes lower, swiping softly over his ribs and Will feels a bit silly for requesting this. He wonders just how far Hannibal would go in this task. Would he crouch down and wash his legs? His feet? Would he kneel again? Will remembers that on the evening before Jesus' death he washed the disciple's feet. A lesson on humility, that their teacher and master could lower himself and perform menial tasks out of love...

Had that been the reason Hannibal had willingly went down to his knees, kneeling on wet pavement before Will? Will may have had a gun, but Hannibal hadn't appeared frightened in the least. What else could love make Hannibal do? (Jesus had washed Judas Iscariot's feet, after all...)

Will's abdominal muscles clench in anticipation as Hannibal washes across the jut of a hipbone... but nothing comes of it. The washcloth moves upward and Will groans softly in a weak protest.

Hannibal acknowledges just how 'excited' Will is and his grip tightens on Hannibal's arm as Will tries to rein himself in with little success. His quick breathing is seen in the rise and fall of his chest and he actually pushes into Hannibal's touch as nails drag the washcloth across his other nipple.

He knows he's being shameless, but there's apparently a depraved part of Will that is getting something out of this all and delighting in the situation. Hannibal's nonsexual washing, his smooth voice, his fucking  _words_ \- it all encourages Will to do nothing but remain and  _take it_. Although he may not be saying or doing much, Will knows he's an active participant. Every little reaction, every little response he gives, Hannibal observes and relishes; it's a feast for Hannibal and the main course is Will Graham.

Quizzed on why he's aroused, Will stares at any place lower than Hannibal's chin. His eyes take in the man's jawline, a peppering of grey stubble and he has the sudden urge to want to feel the roughness against his skin. Will does nothing, his mind trying to come up with an answer for Hannibal.

Is he turned on because of Hannibal's darkness? His cunning?

Will has no idea of just how many lives Hannibal Lecter has ended - and yes, there's a perverse thrill that lights up when Will thinks on how dangerous Hannibal is, but moreso that he's somehow captured his black heart.

Hannibal makes a show of glancing down between them, commenting,  _that does look quite uncomfortable._ Will takes a few steadying breaths in before leaning his head forward and resting his forehead on Hannibal's chest, feeling almost lightheaded.

"It's... It's fine," Will grits out, his hand grasps tightly on Hannibal's arm. What he wants to say is, 'please don't stop; please keep touching me; please keep looking at me.' But he can't. He's begun to tremble, but he is unsure why.

"Hannibal, I..." He stops and starts again. "Don't know why I'm like this."

* * *

Will is responsive under his hands. Hannibal finds himself idly wondering if this is something common to Will Graham or if this is a right he alone has earned. Something tells him - as Will's gaze drops somewhere around his chin, looking conflicted - that this is not something Will is used to. He is not a social creature, instead dependent upon solitude, avoiding eye contact and touch whenever possible; yet over the course of their acquaintance, Will has allowed  _him_ a great many indulgences.

Gentle touches to Will's shoulder, caring for him once injured, cupping the line of his jaw and leaning in far closer than social graces would dictate allowable between two men. Perhaps Will had not responded, choosing instead to stare off fixedly into the distance, but even at the time, Hannibal had taken no offense. Will is not a man used to such attention, shunning it, and yet he had not pulled away from Hannibal's touch.

A bitter part of Hannibal's mind caustically reminds him that Will has been playing a very intricate game over the last few months. Yet try as he might to write Will's responses off as an attempt to manipulate, Hannibal cannot fully believe it. Will has changed these past few months. Ingram has been the best indication of that, with the hammer of Will's gun catching Hannibal's thumb pointedly instead of the firing pin. Randall Tier had been another, though Will had been provoked. Yet even so, Hannibal cannot see good Jack Crawford willingly sanctioning a death for the sake of cover. Will had  _killed_ someone. Hannibal doubts  _that_ had been intended to manipulate.

No, Will Graham has changed, allowed himself to become malleable under Hannibal's hands. He's allowed Hannibal to open the door to his darkness, to peer beyond the curtain, tentatively stepping through. Despite Hannibal's bitterness over this betrayal, he suspects that not all of it had been one.

This isn't one.

No, Hannibal watches the flicker of confused desperation lance through Will's eyes. Hannibal's hand is gentle, his touch entirely nonsexual for all the tension even he feels in this moment. Yet despite this, Will is hard, aching, staring fixedly ahead in the way he had after Hannibal had stopped him from killing Ingram.

It's the expression he wears when he's caught, overwhelmed, struggling with what to do or what to say.  _This_ is genuine, and Hannibal allows satisfaction to wash over him. He wets his lips and takes pleasure in Will's confusion, in his discomfort.

Once he has ripped away the curtain - Will's plausible deniability that Hannibal has not noticed his physical state - Will's breathing struggles to even out. Then, somewhat to Hannibal's surprise, Will leans in.

He does nothing but lean his head against Hannibal's chest, but this is a level of intimacy that they have never broached before, for  _Will_ had been the one to initiate it.

Hannibal pauses only for a fraction of a second before continuing the task. He finishes Will's torso and then calmly reaches his free arm around Will's back in order to touch the cloth to his skin. He gently lathers the back of Will's neck, down over his bare shoulders - moving from the force of Will's breathing. He's beautifully desperate and confused like this and Hannibal has to call upon his own calm in order to avoid reacting.

His touch is clinical, the only true points of contact the ones Will is initiating. Yet as he washes over Will's back, Hannibal's inner wrist cannot help brushing over Will's skin, his scar touching the man who had so thoughtfully gifted it. Under his hand, Will trembles. Hannibal looks down and takes silent enjoyment at the sight of Will's hair pressed to his chest; the knowledge that Will is willingly pressing himself against something so undeniably masculine despite his protests. Hannibal's chest is solid, his muscles firm, his hair evident. Yet Will is still seeking this out, even though he clearly has no idea why.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, Will," Hannibal finally says, though this is perhaps a half-truth.

Given Will's distress, he could make many guesses, and he plans to, but he finds himself enjoying the sight of the way Will's distress increases when he realizes he'll need to clarify. Before he can, Hannibal makes his decision and speaks again, the cloth moving down each ridge of Will's vertebrae, massaging the soap into his skin. Will's hand is painfully tight on his arm, but Hannibal doesn't move.

"You don't know why you're  _like this_...? I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific. You don't know why you are reacting so strongly to me, despite who I am, and despite not being your gender of choice? Or why you would prefer to remain aroused now when you had no qualms taking what you wanted from me earlier this evening? Or, perhaps..."

Hannibal trails off just for a moment, drinking in the sight of Will's distress.

"You don't know why you enjoy the thought of me seeing you desperate like this. That what I told you in the elevator made you  _want_ me to follow through despite your surety regarding your sexuality. And the fact that you are even more aroused now, after hearing me point it all out to you."

Hannibal pauses just long enough for the words to sink in, and then leans in to murmur lower, his tone still casual, still bordering on clinical.

"Please clarify what you meant, Will."

* * *

Will could try and lie to himself, attribute this all to the long game he's playing. Initially, that may have been the reason to suggest they shower together, but he knows what's happening right now is genuine. It's unsettling to say the least, certainly not his norm. Sex and arousal has always been fairly straightforward and it hasn't  _ever_ involved distress and embarrassment. This is potentially bordering on something disturbing. 

Despite how close they are, they're only connected and touching in three places - his forehead on Hannibal's chest, his hand wrapped around Hannibal's arm and wherever Hannibal chooses to wash. None of it is sexual, yet Will is fully hard, cock filled out and standing untouched. Clearly Hannibal's attention, his scrutiny, his touch is all contributing to this physical state.

Will can understand these elements... But what of the fucking _words_? The  _implications_ of the questions and statements posed to him... It's almost like he's getting off on Hannibal embarrassing him... on humiliation?  It's messed up. Completely. It's not normal - not that this is new by any means, he's never been especially good at doing the 'normal' thing, but does he want another aspect of his life veering off course like this?

(No, not really.)

God, he wishes he could say this was an act, that he was doing this for Hannibal, but Hannibal hasn't been forward in the least. It's Will who's reached out and pushed, asking for more, seeking. (Seeking  _what?)_ Will swallows, and casts his eyes downward. Hannibal isn't aroused. He's alone in this. Is Hannibal just playing with him again? (Wind him up, watch him go,  _clang clang clang!)_ After all, Hannibal is a sadist and perhaps Will's traitorous body and skewed arousal is merely an outlet for amusement. He wants to be angry. He wants to push Hannibal away and flee.

He can't.

This close, he can smell Hannibal's cologne. Distinctly expensive and complex. Completely Hannibal and despite his rising panic, Will wants to bask in the scent, rub against Hannibal's neck and be covered in the fragrance. He wishes he could dissolve into Hannibal, leave his fractured self behind, but no matter how wretched he gets, no matter how well he can empathize and slip into another, Will knows he's truly stuck with himself until the end. There's very little respite for a man like Will Graham. Life and Hannibal have taught him this.

His eyes are tightly shut and his shaking doesn't dissipate. He's riding a fine line of arousal and panic.

Hannibal's touch is insistent, sliding down his spine and Will wishes the barrier of the washcloth was gone. The barrage of questions only heightens his agitation. No, he doesn't want to be specific. Yes, he doesn't understand how Hannibal, a man, is having such a strong effect on him. Does he actually want to remain aroused? ...Is that what's happening here? Yes, there is a marked difference in his behavior compared to whatever he had done on the roadway. He took unrepentantly before and now his inaction reeks of submission. Will digs his nails into Hannibal's arm, his body is vibrating with a need to do something, to react.

_‘You don't know why you enjoy the thought of me seeing you desperate like this…’_

His lips part and he can hear how rapid his breathing is. He's burning up with arousal and wants anything, wants more--

‘... _The fact that you are even more aroused now, after hearing me point it all out to you--’_

The sound that comes out is a  _whine_ and Will fucking never whines. He jerks when Hannibal leans in, his tone far too seductive and that's all it takes for him to snap. Will's head bolts up, eyes half lidded while his other hand darts to the back of Hannibal's head, burying into wet strands and gripping hard.

"You're such a prick," he spits out before attacking Hannibal's neck, biting hard and sucking with equal vigor.

He presses into Hannibal, naked skin sliding against the older man, his hard-on be damned. Will is flustered, shaken up and pissed off. All he wants to do is fuck up Hannibal someway and return the favor.

* * *

There is always a gamble to these careful games. Hannibal has no concrete proof that he is correct but nor does the absence of proof disprove his theory. Like this, with warm water raining down upon them both, Will's skin shining with it and running white with the lather from the washcloth, Hannibal watches him closely, looking for any indication he's correct. Humiliation arouses Will. It seems almost laughable to claim, yet the evidence is slowly speaking for itself. While he's been as careful as he can be to test this - his comment in the elevator, his direction for Will to undress him, and his dispassionate, clinical touches - there is only so much he can do or say without claiming his suspicions outright. Hannibal has no desires to do so.

No... while this is interesting, he doesn't wish to  _abuse_ it. True there is a small part of him that wishes to grasp it like a reign and pull Will in, to reassert his control over the situation, but angry as he is with this man, he cannot take something so personal and shatter it. Not even Hannibal Lecter is that type of monster. Not when Will Graham is concerned.

Yet he still clings to the discovery, carefully sifting it like sand through his fingers to attempt to catch the slightly larger treasures within. He speaks clinically, his entire posture one of distance. It's carefully crafted to serve as a barrier between them. There is Hannibal and there is Will, and he's careful to keep it that way as he trails the washcloth low over Will's back, feeling the delicate tremble under his hand. Despite how skilled a psychiatrist Hannibal is, he's no mind-reader. He cannot see Will's face with it tucked down like this, and under his hands, he reads Will's trembling as nothing more than need. He doesn't see the first fissure under Will's skin, doesn't see Will looking down between his legs to where he is very carefully trying to keep all traces of arousal from his sex. In this, he can be distant, can be  _above_. Will Graham is not his ultimate exception. Hannibal refuses to allow that to be so.

The first hint that something is amiss comes when Will's nails dig into his arm. Hannibal distantly notices the bite of pain but thinks little of it. Will is desperate, aroused, riding high on Hannibal's words. Of course his touch will slip. Of course his grip will tighten. He's embarrassed, but he's still aroused. Hannibal can scent the difference in the air, though there is another, softer scent. Panic, perhaps, though this also is not surprising. If he's correct, this should be standard.

Will's soft whine is music to his ears. Hannibal's touch does hesitate this time and unseen to Will, he wets his lips before continuing. It's this soft sound - low and desperate and distinctly masculine yet also thin and reedy - that emboldens him into leaning in ever so slightly to offer his final request.

He tells Will to clarify. Asks him, perhaps, but they both know this is a  _command_ instead of a mere request. And just like that, Will snaps.

Hannibal watches him twitch, pleased for only as long as it takes for Will to suddenly snap his gaze up. Yet the second Will meets his eyes, Hannibal's calculated look of dispassion eases into a slight frown of alarm. He can see something in Will's eyes the split second before his hand shoots out and grabs Hannibal's hair, earning him a startled grunt of discomfort that sends frissons of mutual irritation and interest through him.

Will's words earn Will an immediate curl of Hannibal's lip but not even that gets more than a second to show itself before once again, Will Graham decides to do something that is in no way intelligent.

Hannibal's free hand has just started to move to grasp Will's hip - perhaps in warning, perhaps to ground him - when all of a sudden, Will lunges. Hannibal sees a flash of white teeth and the violence carved into Will's expression and then suddenly teeth latch onto his neck, high, close enough to his jaw to make it dangerous. Hannibal breathes in a sharp hiss between his teeth - more surprise and indignation than pain - but then Will presses in close enough to bring them flush together and not even Hannibal can properly feign complete disinterest. This is a man he has wanted since perhaps the moment they'd met. A man who swept into Hannibal's carefully-organized life like an uncontrolled explosion. Will Graham is a catalyst for a great many things, and his propensity for reckless violence is not exempt.

" _Will,_ " Hannibal snaps, his voice rough with raw irritation as the washcloth falls uselessly to the floor of the shower.

One hand sets itself on Will's hip and the other immediately reaches up to his hair, curling into dark, wet strands tightly in order to try and lever Will from his throat.

The force of it all makes him stumble, has his back suddenly hitting the cold tile of the shower wall, and Hannibal hates that he needs to, but he immediately releases Will's hip in order to reach back and steady himself. He's not certain where this had come from. (Had he pushed too hard? Had he been mistaken? No, the press of Will's erection against his stomach is  _very_ evident...) But his displeasure is clear.

"Will, this is...  _very_ unwise," Hannibal hisses again, gripping Will's hair tightly in irritation.

He's furious at Will's  _gall_ but there is a small part of him that is rather impressed at his recklessness. No one but Will could have surprised him (no one but Will has  _ever_ surprised him...) and Hannibal finds himself faced with a different realization as Will presses up close to him: he's growing hard. It makes little sense; Hannibal is a sadist, but he has never derived  _pleasure_ from his sadism before. He is not a masochist. He has a high pain tolerance and can withstand a great deal, but he is  _not_ a masochist.

Yet perhaps - once again - Will Graham is shaping up to be another exception. Hannibal's lip curls in a silent snarl. Will's mouth his hot and his teeth are tight and sharp. He's undoubtedly creating a hellish mark, and Hannibal is left startled that there is a small part of him that enjoys that idea. His mind briefly flickers back to the groans that had fallen from Will's throat earlier that evening when he'd seen Hannibal choking and while thoughts of Will's humiliation are not shelved, another notion rears its head. Hannibal considers it for only a moment before deciding there is one way to test his suspicion.

"Will," he says the name again, a third time, with a thread of something edging closer to desperate, "you're hurting me."

Not even Hannibal is sure why he reacts, but there is no denying his response. His hand in Will's hair is painfully tight and punishing and were he not so convinced Will's teeth were tight enough to possibly tear, he'd have wrenched his head back moments ago. He doesn't. Instead, with Will pressed up against him, Hannibal's anger a pounding pulse through his veins, he makes his observation and manages to affect his voice just enough to  _sound_ pained. It's not a lie. Will  _is_ hurting him. He can merely withstand a great deal without complaint.

* * *

Before he all out attacks Hannibal's neck, Will does witness a flicker of surprise on Hannibal's face followed by a his words - calling Hannibal a prick - causing the doctor's lip to curl in disdain. He doesn't allow himself time to enjoy the spectacle, Will baring his teeth and biting at the sensitive wet skin of Hannibal's neck. In this moment, he's feral, caring little if he breaks skin. He indulges himself, asserting pressure and sucking lewdly.

This is unwise. This is most likely rude as well. Will hadn't asked if he could do such a thing, but Hannibal's damn pushing, the stream of know-it-all statements and questions had reached a boiling point for Will. He won’t be playing this game with Hannibal, won’t be entertaining him and clanging the cymbals together. He may be messed up, Will may like Hannibal's attention far too much, but he will hit back if provoked. He will also prove himself untamed. Hannibal had said he wanted him genuine and his impulsive, reckless nature is a part of that package deal.

This, too, is new for Will. He's never bitten this hard before - a few nips, sure, a few hickies, but this is something else entirely. This is violent. (Sadism?) He's taught classes about these kinds of bite marks. The realization should have him stopping, should have Will pulling away, aghast, but he doesn't. They're closer than they have ever been and Will distantly registers the sound of his name being said followed by the forgotten washcloth falling to the floor.

It hardly matters. Will is single-minded in his focus, hands clasping Hannibal's arm and hair possessively. Hannibal tries to pry him away and Will stands his ground, shaking his head a little, and if anything, he uses more force. He won't relent in this until he's satisfied, until  _he_ decides it's enough. He feels jittery, his equilibrium absent, but he thinks Hannibal won't let either of them fall.

His enthusiasm has Hannibal stumbling back, reaching out to steady himself and this, too, delights Will. He doesn't feel bad in the least. Let Hannibal be caught off guard, let him be uncertain and needing some stability for once. Will knows all about instability; he's the fucking poster boy for it.

Of course, Hannibal has a comment for the turn of events, labeling it simply as unwise, and Will would laugh if he wasn't busy digging his teeth into the heat of Hannibal's neck. He hasn't broken the skin yet, but he's tempted. Will finally feels Hannibal's body responding, his cock hardening. Whether it's from their closeness, the biting-and-sucking combination or a mixture, Will doesn't care. He's just glad that it's mutual.

But then Hannibal speaks again and the tone is different enough that it has Will easing his bite, a bit confused.

_'You're hurting me.'_

Three simple words, one definitive statement, a world of meaning. It's what Will wants to achieve in the end - Hannibal hurt and broken - but not physically. Physical wounds mend, bullet holes and gashes along wrists get stitched up, scar tissue forms and one goes on... And yet, the prospect of hurting Hannibal  _now_ , in any way, is appealing to Will. His arousal doesn't diminish at the thought. Will pulls away from Hannibal's neck to whisper his reply directly into his ear.

"So? You can take it." He has no doubts about this. He's seen Hannibal smile serenely after the physical altercation with Tobias Budge.

Will rubs his cock against Hannibal. Blatant. He's breathing harsh as he adds on, "Let me taste you, Hannibal. Can I make you bleed?"

Hannibal truly does bring out the worst in him - at least this is what Will would like to believe. His mouth returns to the blooming mark and he laps at it almost lovingly while waiting for a response.

* * *

There are two ways this can go. The first is the one Hannibal expects. He expects Will is going to hear the statement and realize what he's done. He expects Will to jerk back like he's been burned, to be horrified. He expects his empathy to mutate into a twisted sympathy despite his anger. Yet even as he  _thinks_ this will happen, other images flash in his mind.

He remembers the way Will had held the gun to his head in his kitchen, remembers the near-manic smile that had spread on his lips at the sight of Hannibal's discomfort. He remembers the low, near-breathy quality to Will's voice while discussing his desire to kill Hannibal, and of course, he remembers Will finding his pleasure viciously earlier that evening. Perhaps the old Will Graham would have pulled back, horrified, stuttering his apologies.  _This_ Will Graham... Hannibal suddenly has his doubts.

To his mild surprise, the vicious grip Will's teeth have upon his neck suddenly releases. Hannibal drags in a low breath, fighting the petulant urge he has to wrench Will's neck back enough to  _hurt_ in response. Yet he is not expecting Will to lean in closer, and if Hannibal had any doubts regarding his suspicion that perhaps he is not the  _only_ sadist between them, they die immediately.

Will's voice is low and curling: (' _So? You can take it.'_ ) and Hannibal surprises himself by his physical response to those words.

He calculates it, almost clinically, as his pulse beats harder and arousal burns pleasantly low. Interesting. He is not a masochist by traditional standards, but... perhaps, he  _is_ for Will Graham. Hannibal wets his lips, noting suddenly that his own breathing is slightly ragged. He'd not noticed due to the volume of Will's breaths, and Hannibal is immediately uncertain if he  _enjoys_ this little realization.

He does enjoy the undulation of Will's hips. Hannibal can feel the hard press of Will's cock against his own, against his stomach, can feel it rubbing hard against his hair (yes, very uncomfortable being attracted to men indeed, Will...). It doesn't lessen the flare of irritation in Hannibal's chest, nor does it make the desire to  _hurt_ Will any less.

Even so, Hannibal is not an impulsive man. He has control, and there are times when one needs to weigh all the options together. This is a blatant side of Will, one Hannibal both wishes to hurt and see more of. So when Will's voice lifts again, almost plaintive, Hannibal shoves down the desire to grab Will by the throat and throw him back against the far wall. Instead he wets his lips; not even he is above reacting to such a sweetly-worded response.

"Are you asking, or are you merely absolving yourself of your guilt?" Hannibal asks stiffly. "If I said no, would you do it anyway?"

Something tells him the answer is yes, and the thought is as irritating as it is thrilling, which is not a combination Hannibal had ever expected to  _enjoy_. He shivers slightly at another roll of Will's hips, at the prospect of Will's brutality. His breathing hitches. Hannibal's fingers are tight in Will's hair still and after only a second to pause, he forcibly draws Will's lips from his neck and the blatantly lurid bruise left behind. Instead he draws Will lower, down to the elegant curve of his clavicle and presses him in closer there, away from major veins and arteries he doesn't want nicked. Reckless, impulsive boy...

"Do you  _want_ to make me bleed, Will?" Hannibal asks tightly. It's not a yes, but it's not a no. Hannibal cannot help his curiosity. He is consenting, but silently.

* * *

Hurting Hannibal. Making him pay. Revenge. A reckoning. Reciprocity. These things have been lurking in the shadows in Will's mind for some time. Deep roots have grown, anger and hurt sprouting up like weeds, shaping his thoughts and warping his desires. Intention has spurred him forward and brought him here. Will has left his old life and ran straight to Hannibal. He must be as crazy as Hannibal is foolish. (Maybe they really  _do_ belong to together.)

But this - physically hurting Hannibal - this isn't what Will has let his mind dwell on. Yes, he's fantasized about killing Hannibal, about ending his life, and some dreams have been especially gruesome... But killing is something Will has experience with. Sexual violence? Sadism? These are concepts that he's only glimpsed and empathized with. Tonight is the first time Will has had to wonder just what kind of influence Hannibal has on him. (Surely, this can't be him. It must be Hannibal's wing that casts this shadow.)

The pull of his own hair borders on painful, but it only adds to their moment and heightens the knowledge that Hannibal hasn't thrown him off or even reprimanded him. Will can't see how Hannibal takes his retort. Hannibal is anything  _but_ delicate. It probably does hurts, but he's not  _suffering_. Hannibal is proud, what bothers him about this exchange is likely Will not asking and if, later, there is a mark for others to gawk at. Appearances are important for the good doctor, after all. (Now taking the time to look at his creation, Will is pleased to see that his mark is in fact high enough up that a collar can't hide it.)

Will's not the only one affected by their closeness, or is it the display of almost savagery that has Hannibal breathing a little quicker and his dick harder? As curious as Will may be, he won't ask. He has time to learn this new body, there's no rush. And he  _will_ learn Hannibal's body, he'll get over any qualms he has. He has to.

Asked if he would do it without explicit permission has Will's hips faltering in the their shameless grinding. He wants to shoot back that he does, in fact, have some self-control and if Hannibal truly was against it, he could stop him...

But Will says none of it because he isn't so sure of the first claim. How well does he actually know himself now? How much as Hannibal changed him? Hannibal's manipulation, his meddling... The landscape of Will Graham, is it forever altered? (Likely, yes. Teacups shatter and do not come back together; Hannibal must break too.)

His mouth is moved lower, Hannibal's hand leaving his hair to do so. Hannibal would prefer Will bite somewhere private, somewhere less dangerous. It comes as no surprise, Hannibal is the meticulous and careful type. Will breathes in the scent of Hannibal, his hold relaxing slightly on Hannibal's hair and arm.

"I want to taste you," Will answers plainly. Hannibal hadn't deemed it necessary to give him a direct yes or no, so Will won't either. It should be clear enough. Will  _does_ want to make Hannibal bleed. He's achingly hard and skims his lips along Hannibal's collarbone. He can't help himself. He wants to devour this man.

So when he returns to the original place Hannibal had relocated his mouth, he murmurs, "I'm going to" before he bites with intention, an excited sound accompanying the action. Will bites to mark Hannibal, to make him bleed. He increases the pressure until he tastes copper.

* * *

That brief stutter of Will's hips says everything that he does not. The thought of Hannibal being a willing participant is still important in Will's mind, though he doesn't dare say as much. As Hannibal looks down at him tightly, unable to move his head much with Will's fingers fast in his hair, he believes he understands what Will isn't saying. Consent may be important, but is Will capable of truly claiming he could deny himself now? Does he know himself as he once did? What will stay of Will's old life, and what will he discard during this period? What pattern will emerge upon his wings when he fully claws his way free of the chrysalis? Once his wings dry, once he has choked his lungs into working properly, what will be lost to change and what will remain standing?

The thought might unnerve Will, but it does no such thing to Hannibal, who looks down at him easier once Will's tight grip on him eases. He doesn't release his hold, his hand still tight and firm in Hannibal's hair, his fingers still pressing bruises into Hannibal's skin, but this is Will's subconscious allowance. Easing off, loosening his hold - Hannibal wonders if Will is aware of what he's just wordlessly said. He's giving Hannibal conscious permission to draw back; even in this new wave of sadism, Will Graham is not willing to  _fully_ take. Interesting. Though Hannibal's ire still burns, though he still wishes to shove Will away and check the damage to his throat, those impulses are silent hisses in the back of his mind, vastly overshadowed by this moment.

Will's body is a warm, solid press against his own, slick with soap he presses unthinkingly against Hannibal's skin. There is no grace in the way Will ruts against him, inelegant and forceful,  _taking_. He knows he's shoved Hannibal off balance, knows he's caught precariously, and by now he's clearly noticed Hannibal's own arousal. Perhaps Hannibal could rein himself back in but he sees no point.  _Not_ reacting as he'd slid the cloth over skin he'd ached to map out and touch for months had been maddening.

At heart, despite his ire, Hannibal is still a hedonist. He's willfully selfish, and though this is not what he had once imagined while thinking of having Will lose himself against him, it is fitting that the reality afforded to him by Will Graham is rough and grating, its edges uneven and sharp. The man is a mural made of broken glass. He reflects, chaotic, changing everything in his wake.

The words -  _I want to taste you_ \- have Hannibal stilling, his fingertips paling against the white tile of the wall. There are many meanings to that phrase and he doesn't doubt that Will has chosen it intentionally. Knowing what he'd denied Hannibal mere hours ago after demanding the same of him. Reciprocity. A pointed barb. Jaw setting, Hannibal shivers at the slide of lips over his skin. It's a delicate tease.

"Am I stopping you?" His voice is edged with the same steel as the knife that had carved its way into Will's cheek, but he doesn't intend it as a deterrent. He has perhaps a second in which Will considers this, his lips sliding back to the curve of Hannibal's clavicle, and then Will's murmured response washes over his skin a second before his hips still and teeth catch him.

In the split second between heat and pain, Hannibal considers testing this further, contemplating a louder reaction simply to see what Will would do. He decides against it as Will's teeth press harder and a deep, burning ache of crushed capillaries and bruised flesh pushes beyond its limits. No, he had enhanced his response the first time. This time he wishes to be genuine, and so as Will's excitement registers and he presses Hannibal further back, biting hard enough that the muscles of his jaw stand out in stark contrast, Hannibal allows himself nothing more than a soft punched-out breath that draws in on the wings of a hiss as Will's teeth sink into him, spilling blood around his teeth and lips.

The visual is  _stunning_ and Hannibal feels arousal coil within, his grip on Will's hair tightening anew to keep him there. The bite stings and burns pleasantly, but it isn't until the thought of the wound potentially scarring hits that Hannibal gives Will's hair a small tug, encouraging, shifting to slot their hips together just a little better.

"Is it in your nature to be so delicate? I think not."

* * *

Hannibal doesn't stop him, so Will lets himself go ahead. His teeth meet wet flesh and it feels far too instinctual to push harder, to bite deeper and quickly break skin. He's tasted blood before of course. Granted it'd been Will's own from the likes of a bloody lip and then from the occasional nicks to his fingers. The composition is the same, the variability in hematocrit affecting how metallic it tastes. It's completely fanciful, but as his tongue curiously moves, Will finds that Hannibal's blood holds a layer of sweetness underneath the initial strong coppery taste. (It has to be him losing his mind...)

The bite is thankfully met with no theatrical responses from Hannibal, just a sudden exhale and then a hiss. It's still nice, still some sort of recognition that his actions are doing something,  _causing_ something. But this is dangerous. Impetuous.

Will shakes, his hand rubs up and down Hannibal's arm, almost as if needing to comfort himself. This feels like a car hitting a patch of ice, a potential for disaster if not handled properly. Self-preservation is no friend to Will Graham. He may have tried to manipulate Hannibal regarding Mason, may have fed him cuts from Tier in place of Freddie, but Will had acted much more coolly then. He'd shown a penchant for restraint and charm. He'd been much more like Hannibal. Now Will can drop the act, or at least that mask. Hannibal seems to appreciate this change, adjusting so that they can better rub against each other as well as almost pushing Will into the bite (encouragement?).

The question breaks through his haze -  _Is it in your nature to be so delicate?_ \- and Will's eyes narrow. Is Hannibal goading him? Is this another test, another game? Is he doomed to constantly be a thing - a subject - for Hannibal to want to manipulate and then observe the results? Frustration cuts through Will and he does, briefly, bite down harder. It's like the moment out on the road again, the rush of violence and power, of him  _taking_ something. The Ripper took organs and now it's time for Will to take. Even Steven. Sharing. It would help their fostering relationship, right? (But this wouldn't be enough, a mark, a scar, a taste of blood? No, Will is going to take much more.)

Will releases the skin from his mouth, not bothering to pull away (if he even could considering Hannibal's grip).

"If you want something, ask. No need to manipulate me, Doctor, not anymore," Will replies, his voice ragged but low. He tongues at the wound, a manifestation of his feelings and it's intoxicating.

* * *

Hannibal is curious regarding this new side of Will Graham, a side he's rarely seen before. He's seen Will's brutality retroactively, seen the force of his rage imprinted upon Tier's lifeless face from where Will had spread him blatantly upon Hannibal's table. A house cat leaving a dead bird behind, pointedly placed upon his table where had blood pooled and needed careful cleaning. It had been as aggressive a statement as Will's whispered desire to use his hands in order to kill Hannibal. Yet despite this, Will's brutality has been carefully shielded from him. He's seen his rage in passing - shaken after killing Hobbs, flickers of violence from each killer, Gideon at gunpoint,  _Hannibal_ at gunpoint, Tier - but the first true sign of it had been earlier that evening. Will's violence, his sadism, the way he'd  _taken_ without asking, the way he'd used Alana, and now, his teeth tight upon Hannibal's skin, spilling hot blood over his lips.

He cannot help his curiosity regarding this man. This is a side Will has held carefully in check until now, and Hannibal takes far more pleasure than even he'd expected when he looks down and sees the lines etched into Will's face, the force of his bite, the stain of blood upon his lips.

Hannibal's goading is successful. His comment - tight and irritated - earns him a sharper press, Will's teeth digging deeper, spilling blood anew. Hannibal lets out a slow breath at the spike in pain, but watching the frustration etched into Will's features - watching the blood running red over his lips - is enough to send another curious lance of desire through him. The pain is inconsequential. Perhaps it is almost pleasant, but Hannibal's desire stems from Will Graham bathed in blood. His fingers tangle in Will's hair, coaxing, bordering on demanding, and Hannibal is not expecting Will to decide to release him.

So when he does (though he doesn't draw  _away,_ partly due to Hannibal's grip) Hannibal releases a softer breath bordering on frustration. He looks down, breathing just a little harder, and watches his blood pool hotly against Will's lips before spilling down, catching in his chest hair almost obscenely. Hannibal is caught by the sight, contemplative, but he draws up short at Will's comment.

 _“Doctor”_ sends a lance of heat through him, though Hannibal is uncertain whether it's arousal or frustration, for both seem to be vying for importance. He cannot deny a soft breath of amusement at Will's tone, though he doesn't smile. Instead his fingers curl tighter in Will's hair, almost punishing. Hannibal hasn't missed the immediate shift of power. That Will would implore  _him_ to ask...

"Impudent boy," Hannibal murmurs back, with an edge of affection despite the frustration in his voice. Irritated but wanting, the same tone he'd used on the road following Will's rudeness. "There are many things I want from you. Your teeth. Your mouth. Your loyalty. Your mind. Truth," Hannibal says the final one with an edge he doesn't intend.

He pushes beyond it, and as he does so, he considers their position and carefully braces himself before jerking Will closer. He slots a thigh between Will's legs, pressing pointedly against his cock, though not tightly enough to give him any real relief. It's an acknowledgement of their mutual states.

"I wonder what you would deign to grant me were I to ask it of you. If I asked you to drop to your knees, would you? If I asked you to touch yourself..." Hannibal leans in just a little, monitoring Will for each reaction. His lips brush the shell of Will's ear and he lowers his voice.

"If I asked you to hurt me... would you?"

* * *

Where does his true self lie in all of this? What’s Will and what’s a part of this new lie, this new manipulation he's playing at while he clambers to get closer to Hannibal? His lines blur. (Conjoined.) Anger and hurt are powerful motivators, his intention pushing him along, prodding him to go further and he's both behaved and behaving unlike the once-held concept of himself.

Is he actually a sadist, or is this a simply a way to channel his anger and adopt a darker persona of sorts? Hannibal operates within the darkness, delights in wickedness, so Will, too, must, let himself go there. (How much of a stretch is it, though? How close was he before? One foot in the door, surely and just needing a nudge.)

Hannibal is the master of small nudges, isn't he? Incessantly curious about how he can persuade people - patients - friends - whomever... He'd like nothing more to have a chest full of amusing toys to wind up and see them skitter along, not surprised in the least when they fall or run into obstacles. The hand tightens in his hair, perhaps a rebuke for stopping or a punishment for his statement. Will doesn't know which, perhaps both.

He's called an  _impudent boy_ , but it almost sounds laced with affection. If the term had came from anyone else, Will would have been greatly annoyed. From Hannibal, though... Not so much. Hannibal gives him a list of things he wants: his teeth, mouth, loyalty, mind... the truth. (It takes everything in Will to not try and attempt to wrench himself away at the last addition.)

No matter how hurt Will is, no matter how he may try to demonize Hannibal, a part of him still feels slightly bad about this plan. He's never deliberately set out to cause a forest fire, never been so low that causing the destruction of someone else's life could actually be appealing.

(Thanks, Doctor Lecter.)

Hannibal nudges himself closer, a thigh coming to spread Will's legs and press against his dick. Will shudders, a spike of pleasure from the feel of hard muscle against him. Hannibal presents possibilities that he could ask for - him going to his knees, him touching himself while presumably being watched and then... him hurting Hannibal. Will takes in a deep, steadying breath. A part of him wants to retort that he wouldn't be getting to his knees and blowing Hannibal any time soon... but then he remembers what he did on the roadway and that it had been of his own volition.

“You like pushing me, Hannibal?" Will asks in response. He gives a small mockery of a kiss on the most recent bite, lips bloody and beautiful. "You're curious about how I'll push back, right?"

He knows he's right. It emboldens Will. He rocks against Hannibal's thigh, unrepentant, any nerves washing down the drain like rivulets of water.

"Let's push me then. Let's see just how far I'll go."

(All it takes is the right kind of nudge for Will.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The most convincing lies are those that are half-truths. These past few months haven't been a complete deception on my part. I doubt I'm even that good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shower time ends... Don't have anything else to report. Enjoy. n_n
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)  
> Many thanks to [attic-nights](http://attic-nights.tumblr.com) for the beta!

Such a curious creature, Will Graham. As Hannibal looks at him, as he lists off what he wants, he finds himself aware of Will's control, of the soft shiver against him, of the way Will's chest expands in order to drag breath deep into his lungs.

There had been a time where Hannibal had been so certain he'd known this man. Caught in Will's effortless web. Once, Will walked into his office a different man, resumed therapy, talked at length about darker impulses. Looking back on those moments it's clear, in retrospect, what had been happening. Will, aware of Hannibal's fascination with him, had started to play his own game. He slid Hannibal Lecter on like a faded skin and stood before him, enough  _Hannibal_ to appeal to his vanity and enough  _Will_ to appeal to his heart. That he willingly burned it all - every file, every book, every iota of his old life - and with Will by his side, assisting him... were the notion not so bitter in his chest, he would have laughed at Will's skill in deception.

For the first time in his life, Hannibal Lecter had been completely fooled. Now, looking down at blown blue eyes and a vast expanse of pale skin and dark hair, he cannot help but wonder if this is truly as it appears, Will's change of heart. If Will has rarely been genuine, has he a heart to change? Silently, Hannibal allows himself to take in the sight of Will like this, the red slice upon his cheek, his teeth lined with red, his lips and chin stained with blood, the hot, flushed jut of his cock pressed against Hannibal's hip. He is achingly beautiful, bare and vulnerable in ways Hannibal had never believed possible in his presence, and as he watches, Will leans in and presses a twisted mockery of a kiss to the wound upon his clavicle. Hannibal doesn't react, though the way his gaze lingers upon Will's blood-coated lips says it all.

How far will he go for this man? How many slips will he excuse? Hannibal finds himself wondering just where he would be had he followed his logic and killed Will instead of incarcerating him. Yet even as he looks at Will and listens to his words, listens to the curl of manipulation that sets his blood hot, he knows even now he cannot kill him. All he can do now is live with him until he can't. For now, the first order of business is finding out who Will Graham really is, any way he can.

As Will rolls his hips against him, rubbing against his thigh blatantly, his words a low murmur, Hannibal watches him, fights back his flood of irritation at the throbbing of the bite against his throat, and releases a small sigh. His tension doesn't vanish, but there are ways other than anger to get answers.

And Will is so helpfully presenting one to him now.

"I enjoy pushing you, as you enjoy pushing me," Hannibal replies simply, his voice more collected, holding less of the ragged edge it had before. His control is visible. "If that is what you wish of me - to push you - I have no objections. How long have you wanted to see me bleed?" Hannibal asks lowly, finally freeing his hand from Will's hair.

He lifts his hand to his clavicle and presses his fingers to it, coming away red. Hannibal considers his own fingers for a moment and then carelessly presses them to Will's cheek, over his own cut. Blood on blood.

"What do  _you_ want, Will? When you close your eyes, what do you see? Do you see me on my knees on the road? Or perhaps... you see a knife to my throat. What do you  _want_ , Will?"

* * *

Before Hannibal and before Jack, Will's life had been simple. He hadn't been happy per se, but he'd managed and for someone like Will Graham, managing was good enough. He taught. He fished. He kept his head down and glasses just right to avoid the eyes of others. He felt more at ease with dogs than he did with any colleagues or potential love interests. And when he felt overly stressed and frayed, he drank. It wasn't the best coping, but he hadn't blown his brains out or lost his shit, so that had to count as a success of some kind.

They called it a gift, but whatever was in his head never had felt that way. After all, his ability to empathize and understand, to see and feel other minds had attracted Hannibal Lecter to him. It may have been Jack's conscience that had started Will down the path of 'therapy' and Alana's name drop that brought them in contact, but whatever Hannibal saw in him had kept him interesting enough to toy with. The worst part of it all had been when Will realized that Hannibal moved from his psychiatrist to someone he genuinely thought a friend. (Will had trusted...)

But friends didn't lie about a medical condition and induce seizures. Friends didn't frame you for multiple murders. Friends didn't make you question reality and your own fucking sanity.

But anger was easier than hurt, both in terms of thought and feeling, so Will had let himself soak up the injustice and bitterness, marinated in the anger of Hannibal's betrayal. And once released, he'd decided that if he was going to stand a chance he'd channel the man himself and add just enough of Will Graham to be convincing. He'd overplayed his hand, not counting on Hannibal's observational skills and highly tuned sense of smell, but it would seem that fate had intervened. Will's decision to 'come clean' and leave with Hannibal had possibly saved both Jack's life and his own. Now, he's playing a longer and more deadlier game, this time mostly as himself.

(Will isn't aware of the depth of hurt Hannibal feels. He knows Hannibal is angry and bitter because these are the emotions Will himself feels the most intensely. He doesn't want to find hurt, doesn't want to see it.)

Hannibal seems to regain some composure, his voice more sure as he responds. When the hand leaves his hair, Will lifts his head and watches as Hannibal's fingers collect some blood from the bite on his clavicle. A moment later, it's smeared over the cut on his cheek. Appropriate. Will's eyes glint and he lewdly and slowly licks the blood from his lips. This perhaps could be another show.

_'When you close your eyes, what do you see?'_

They've done this type of exercise before. The last time he'd envisioned Hannibal suspended in a straight jacket and Will had slit his throat before he was to be fed to Mason's pigs. (It had been a nice thought.) There's many things he could share, various fantasies and dreams his imagination has treated him with.

 _'What do you **want** , Will?' _(If only he could tell the truth.)

Will's hand slides down to the back of Hannibal's neck and he closes whatever distance is between them, embracing the devil, because why not? Will rests his chin on Hannibal's shoulder, mouth hovering by the man's ear. His lips part and what comes out is closer to the truth than he'd like.

"I wanted you to be my friend... Likely as much as you wanted what was between us to be genuine," Will says, hurt evident in his voice.

He swallows past the sudden swell of unwanted emotion, his throat tight. (He tells himself this will help; showing vulnerability may soften Hannibal. It will help. It will help--)

Unease eclipses his arousal. Will lets go of Hannibal, eyes cast down as he steps back and turns to face the stream of the shower. He doesn't want to risk seeing one of Hannibal's damnable placid expressions. Body wash runs off of him and he stares at the bubbles as they slip down the drain, blood mixing in after a moment as he wipes away at his face.

"As for right now... Concerning you and I... I'm willing to try again if you are."

* * *

Will's embrace comes as a partial surprise but not enough of one that Hannibal feels any need to draw back. Perhaps the tone between them has changed, but it makes the reality no different. Will is still aroused against him, and he’s in the same state. Bitterness and betrayal dull the flame but they don't put it out, and Hannibal can no more deny Will his closeness than he can rend this man open and start again. He hesitates only a moment before his hand settles on Will's hip - a small acknowledgement of his closeness - and he feels the scrape of Will's unkempt stubble against his shoulder. The slide of his skin and the press of soap into the wound stings, but Hannibal keeps him close.

Neither of them have solid foundation right now. Will Graham, the man who had called Hannibal on a whim and risked death in order to suddenly change his mind, who has no remorse for the betrayal of the last few months. And Hannibal Lecter, caught once again by this man's orbit as Will swings him once more around the sun, uncertain whether Will intends him to loop around or burn up in its radiance. Hannibal is bitter, is angry, wishes to rend and heal in equal measure, his anger betrayal and petulance in equal measure. And they are to rebuild from this, their foundation as shaky as that sandcastle against the oncoming waves. Where they can go from here...

Yet as Hannibal's thoughts spiral down, he is not expecting what Will's answer to his question is. He expected a whispered fantasy - sex or murder, does it matter between them anymore? - but what comes out is edged like the head of an arrow. It stabs through his bitterness, twisting and lodging deep, and Hannibal is left standing perfectly still as the  _hurt_ in Will's voice registers.

He blinks, and his expression immediately calms, the deeper lines of anger and bitterness settling to something more acceptable. Will's words are telling, though hold confusion.

' _I wanted you to be my friend...'_ is what catches Hannibal's attention, for it goes against Will's actions.

While he doesn't frown, his expression remains sober, and he watches as Will seems to pause, gather himself, and then draw away.

Will draws away with the speed of a man shocked by his own admission, and Hannibal merely looks at him in silence. He watches as Will turns away from him, as he focuses on washing the suds from his skin with a single-minded focus that betrays his emotions. Hannibal allows himself a frown then, part petulant, part confused, for what does  _Will_ have to be hurt about in this situation? Still, Hannibal uses the brief reprieve to get his feet back under him safely and lever himself off the wall. He stands and looks down at the bite wound on his clavicle, red and still bleeding its protest, but Will's words still ring true. Hannibal's frown deepens.

"Are you?" He asks, before he can screen the words for his own bitterness.

It's as blatant as the hurt in Will's voice, with an edge of the same hurt that he does mask as best he can. Hannibal takes a single step closer, and though he doesn't know why, he sets his hands on Will's shoulders. His touch is controlled as he slides his bare hands down over Will's back, assisting him in washing away the rest of the suds he hadn't been able to reach. There's no cloth to separate them now and Hannibal's expression settles into something more controlled.

"Or is this another trick? Don't answer," Hannibal adds, with an edge to his own voice. "While I have vowed not to lie to you, you have not done me the same courtesy. I simply wonder how much of the last few months was real. You wore me well. Were it not so disappointing, I would applaud you your deception. Your acting was remarkable. Enough so that I am left curious regarding your sudden change of heart."

It is perhaps the most threatening thing that Hannibal has said thus far, and it's laced with a casual softness that betrays the depth of his bitterness. Even so, it's a clear threat, though a hypothetical one. Hannibal slides his hands from Will's skin and draws in a deeper breath. If they are to speak of this now...

"However, if you would answer me one question as truthfully as you are capable: You wanted me to be your friend? I was. I have not been the one lying to you these last few months. As per your request. That honor is yours alone."

* * *

This is dangerous in its own way. Will may be telling himself that opening up will help, that it's a step in the right direction as it's furthering his plan, but it's more uncomfortable than being naked. Emotional vulnerability doesn't come easy to Will. It never has. Being guarded and building forts is his default. Although he has spilled much to Hannibal, a lot of it had been during the time in which Will had believed Hannibal had his best interests at heart. Their second attempt at therapy and friendship... well, Will knew that 'best interests' was entirely a subjective experience when it came to Hannibal Lecter.

He's not expecting the bitter,  _are you?,_ but Will doesn't try to rush to answer. By now he's quite familiar with how Hannibal speaks and he knows there will be more words given. There usually is. He's not expecting to be touched again, hands coming to his shoulders, but after a beat he relaxes into the touch, a low pleasure in being the one who's being reached out to again. The touch travels lower, no barrier of a washcloth between this exchange now as Hannibal assists in washing the rest of the soap off of him. (It's almost kind.)

The next question demonstrates just how uncertain Hannibal still is about their current situation. Hannibal doesn't even want to hear an answer in case Will would lie to him. Will rubs at his stubble, making sure to get all of the lingering blood washed out. Being bloody feels wrong now, but no matter how he rinses, he still feels stained.

"I wasn't referring to our most recent attempt at friendship," Will clarifies with a weary sigh. "When do you think I needed a friend the most?" He pauses for emphasis (or to prepare himself). "I'll give you a hint: likely when I was at my most unstable, drowning in stress courtesy of Jack, getting turned down by Alana and dealing with a part of my brain inflamed. _That's_ when I needed a friend, Hannibal. I trusted you. I opened myself up. I've... I don't  _do_ that."

He pointedly doesn't mention the death of his surrogate daughter.

They both are stuck in their own betrayals - Hannibal focusing on Will leading him to being caught and Will ensnared by the past of his friend-psychiatrist watching him burn up in his crazy, paired with encephalitis.

"The most convincing lies are those that are half-truths. These past few months haven't been a complete deception on my part. I doubt I'm even that good, Hannibal."

Will turns around carefully to regard Hannibal, his lips tightly pressed together. The honesty feels exhausting and he's still more than a little hard.

* * *

Not even Hannibal is aware of what he expects from this exchange. This evening has been little but a mass of overwhelming emotions and adrenaline, perhaps for them both. Much as he wishes to focus upon his own feelings of betrayal, he is not an idiotic man, nor is he a man willing to look at only half of a situation. He makes a good psychiatrist as he can see all sides, and while his bitterness is caustic in his chest, he cannot help but remember that Will had left his dogs in Wolf Trap. It's such a small detail, hardly worthy of comment, except Hannibal  _knows_ this man, or he had once. Will Graham's fixation on his four-legged creatures borders on co-dependency and for him to not only turn his back on Jack Crawford (' _He's Mine. No one else can have him. You can tell Jack that too.'_ ) but Alana and his dogs as well means far more than Will's actions do.

So despite his bitterness, when Will's shoulders relax under his hands, Hannibal takes notice. He had not been so bold before, but he reads no displeasure in Will's posture. Not until he expresses his bitter confusion over the meaning behind Will's statement. At that moment, Hannibal watches as Will rubs his face, pauses, and then sighs. It is not the sigh of a man with overwhelming levels of rage in his system, nor the sigh of an impulsive man. It's weary and genuine, and as Hannibal's confusion deepens, Will explains.

At first Hannibal is lost, his frown mild and caustic; with Will's back turned, it is safe to allow himself to look hurt. Yet even that expression is put to the test as Will continues, speaking of the past, of needing a friend, of his brush with encephalitis, of  _trusting_ Hannibal, and Hannibal's brow furrows in mild confusion.

Will sounds genuine and small, his words weighted with the exhaustion of a man who has been holding them up in secret for so long that the act of letting them go is little but a relief. Atlas and his Earth, save this one is tainted by blood and fever. The issue is that Hannibal has already rectified this problem. This... mistake. For that's what it had been. Loath as Hannibal is to admit to a mistake, that's what framing Will had been. It had been the best option at the time, but Hannibal had been able to see the toll it took on Will. That it's being brought up  _now_...

Oh. Hannibal stills. In front of him, Will turns to face him, claiming that the past few months have not  _all_ been deception, but the final piece of the puzzle slots very sharply into place like the bite of a hollow needle through skin. Will's lips are thin, his gaze drawn, and while Hannibal's ire is still burning in his chest, once again he is forced to see this particular full picture. He has no benefit of Will's empathy. All he has is what he can see now, and the facts are almost laughably obvious in this moment. The logic, with this final puzzle piece, is sound.

Will hurt, bitter with betrayal much as Hannibal is feeling now, struggling to find peace in the new darkness of his mind, drawn to Hannibal despite his hurt. For Will hadn't realized that Hannibal risking himself enough to prompt a very clear mistrial had been enough danger to be an apology. He hadn't  _seen_ that as an apology. So Jack Crawford, sliding up with whispered poison and soft suggestions, offering revenge... Hannibal almost wants to laugh. He doesn't. Were he to, it would be bitter and hollow and he refuses to give even the memory of Jack Crawford the satisfaction.

"I betrayed you, so you betrayed me. Even Steven," Hannibal says mildly, his tone steady. "Yet you could not go through with it. I wonder why. Conscience, possessiveness, perhaps? Maybe you wish to kill me yourself."

Hannibal breezes by the suggestion like it's of no concern. At this point, it isn't. He wets his lips. "I have rarely had another in my life whose presence consumes me the way you have. The way you did. Your trust blinded you, but you would not have stayed blind for long. You are many things, Will. An idiot is not one."

Hannibal hesitates for only a moment and then reaches out. His fingertips touch softened stubble, then slide higher as Hannibal fits his palm to Will's cheek.

"The intelligent thing would have been to get rid of the problem." To kill him. "I couldn't. Instead I chose a separate method, yet I could not have predicted what it would do to you. I... deeply regret my actions. I would not have set you free had I not. It is  _exceedingly_ inconvenient, your presence in my life. What your absence did to me. I was perhaps more your friend than you knew. Than I knew. Yet it changes little; you still suffered. And I still apologize."

* * *

They've talked often, of violence and darkness, of power and morality, but the path Will has led them to is deeply personal and much more intimate. Admitting hurt is admitting that he'd actually had expectations, that he'd opened himself up enough to both want _and_ need something. (To be hopeful for once...) He'd let himself become vulnerable in seeking and relying on someone who he had believed was a friend. And when the veil had been cruelly snatched away and he'd seen what Hannibal constructed, Will had been left devastated.

Vulnerability brings shame. Like many boys, he'd been raised to consider neediness as weakness and even though Will may now know that it's bullshit, it's still difficult to not feel like he's somewhat lesser. Lesser because he'd so desperately craved a stability in his life that he'd allowed the wool to be pulled over his eyes for so long. (Never again. The only person he can rely on is himself.)

When he'd been notified of the impending mistrial, Will had been troubled, unsure of what Hannibal was planning. And of course the doctor had gone a step further to deliver some 'pieces' from the supposed Copycat's victims on fishing lures Will Graham-style, finally claiming the victims as his and absolving Will of the charges.

 _('The Chesapeake Ripper has set you free. Mazel tov...')_ He still remembers hearing Chilton deliver the acerbic words outside of his cell... He hadn't felt  _free_ at the time.

Will hadn't considered the actions as an apology, assuming Hannibal hard merely grown bored and wanted to continue playing with them all. (Wanted a friend.) Will's not so sure now.

As he turns around and takes in Hannibal's expression, he sees realization dawn there. Had he truly thought Will would be able to move past such a betrayal without recourse? Apparently so. Although Hannibal may be a psychiatrist, may be skilled at deception, he is no psychic. They both assume far too often, and communication is the only way to combat false assumptions. Why had Will not stuck to the plan? Was it his conscience? (Maybe.) Possessiveness? (There's some of that, yes.) A desire to kill Hannibal himself? (That exists too.) Hannibal doesn't guess the  _real_ reason, though.

Will's face leans into Hannibal's hand. (Out of need or to deceive?) The moment is charged with tenuous truths being revealed to each other. Still, Will's heart decides to be excitable and beat a little quicker. When Hannibal speaks of regret, Will's eyes narrow marginally as he searches for any signs of a lie.

He finds none.

_‘I was perhaps more your friend than you knew. Than I knew... And I still apologize.’_

Will's lips part in surprise; he hadn't expected an apology and now that he's been gifted with one, he's unsure how to proceed. Without any thought, he pushes into Hannibal's hand, an almost nuzzle.

* * *

Hannibal can count on one hand the number of genuine apologies he has ever given in his life. He's skirted the edges with a few, has lied graciously through his teeth with others, but this one is real. It's also long overdue.

He wonders for a moment just what would have become of them had he sidled up to a freshly-released Will Graham and offered his apology then. Surely it wouldn't have changed much, but perhaps merely acknowledgement while Will had been rebuilding his life would have been enough to change this outcome. Instead, the hollow space - the speck of grit deep within Will's skin - has been allowed to not only fester but grow. Will's betrayal, his  _game_ , makes sense. Hannibal cannot accept it, but he  _can_ understand it. He knows immediately that had their positions been reversed, he would have done the same. Can he fault Will for a mistake he himself would have made?

His apology comes as a surprise. He can see it written in Will's eyes, can see the flash of shock beneath the hurt, beneath long-broken expectations. His sentiment for this man is inconvenient. There is a great part of Hannibal that wishes to excise it bitterly even now, but he is trapped. By Will Graham. By the sadness in his eyes, by the weight upon his shoulders.

He had once found Will fascinating in duress, and that has not changed, but Hannibal finds himself bitter with the realization that Will looking at him with  _disappointment_ in his eyes actually bothers him. They have seen the worst of each other. Yet Will has not allowed himself to see the best. It rankles, washing over Hannibal's senses. It doesn't calm his anger, but it does prioritize it.

He's silent as he finishes, and Will's expression is caught in genuine surprise. Hannibal has taken a sledgehammer to his bitter edifice and begun to chip away at the bitterness surrounding that speck of grit planted deep. He expects Will to recoil, expects him to spit something back, but he doesn't. He merely stands there, gently surprised, a furrow upon his brow that Hannibal wishes to smooth away.

To Hannibal's surprise, Will leans  _into_ his touch. It's not a conscious decision. It's Will Graham seeking comfort, and Hannibal's palm presses against his cheek warmly. There is no reaction, negative or otherwise. Will merely looks at him in surprise, almost hopeful, almost uncertain, and he knows what he wishes to do only a second before he does it.

With Will leaning into his hand, his stubble dragging against Hannibal's palm, he wets his lips and his gaze drops to Will's lips, still parted in surprise. There is one thing he has not done, and one thing he should have done long before now. Will suspects his fondness. Confirming it will likely do no harm.

"I'm going to kiss you, Will," Hannibal says anyway.

He doesn't ask permission, but he does warn him in the event he wishes to draw back. As Hannibal steps closer, half-into the spray from the shower, his hand still warm on Will's cheek, Will doesn't move away and Hannibal closes the distance between them.

It isn't the hungry, biting kiss they surely would have shared on the side of the road. Hannibal merely draws Will in a step closer, feeling one of Will's knees knock against his own. Hannibal lifts his free hand to Will's other cheek. He draws him in that way, and the first press of their lips together is nothing but a chaste slide, a hint, a promise of more.

Hannibal draws back only enough to glance at Will, enough to ensure he's not about to break apart, and then he leans in again. The second kiss is chaste again, though Hannibal slides one of his hands back, curling it around Will's jaw, back far enough that his fingers curl in the edges of Will's wet hair, thumb stroking along the edge of his jaw.

The third kiss is deeper, Hannibal's tongue finding the surprised part of Will's lips and hardly daring to ask permission before licking into his mouth, slow and sensual, and in a way this is also an apology. An apology for not noticing sooner.

* * *

Like the apology, Will is not expecting to be kissed. Even though Hannibal warns him - half promise, half courtesy - Will's eyes widen. He's never thought about this, never dreamed or fantasized about it. No, he's been too busy drowning in his own bitterness and anger. He hasn't let himself think about just what the hell is between them.

But now the distance between them shrinks, Hannibal coming closer this time, coming to  _him_. Will doesn't move. Doesn't back away. He waits, suspended in this heated moment, caged by anticipation and shackled by a sick need-- (Maybe it's just curiosity...)

It's not a kiss to claim him. It's not bruising or domineering. It's a sweet and fleeting introduction of two mouths meeting, lips brushing against each other as Hannibal's other hand comes to hold his face. When Will expects the kiss to deepen (it has to, surely), Hannibal pulls away. It's not to tease as Will sees Hannibal regard him carefully for a moment ('No, I'm not falling apart,' Will wants to retort, but he can't bring himself to voice it.)

He waits, his body far too affected by this simple gesture - flushed skin, heart racing, Hannibal has him caught. He's intrigued and no, he can't be longing for more, can he?

The second kiss is also brief and Will exhales loudly through his nostrils as Hannibal's hand travels further back to grip his hair. He feels far too invested in where this is going. One of Will's legs spreads further and he slots Hannibal's thigh in between them and gently rocks into the hard muscle, his cock pressing against Hannibal's skin. (Because this can't just be soft kissing in the fucking shower.) Fidgety hands come to grasp tightly on Hannibal's slick biceps, needing something to hold onto as the next kiss, finally, turns more heated.

A tongue slowly swiping into his mouth and it's then that Will has the realization that only a few hours ago his cock was being forcibly pushed into Hannibal's mouth. And Hannibal had swallowed his come after that all too. A part of Will wants to be disgusted by it (for Hannibal hasn't brushed his teeth or anything), but another larger part delights in it.

Will's tongue enthusiastically meets Hannibal's own, but the kiss is kept leisurely (like Hannibal wants to take his time, like Will isn't just some sexual conquest to be rushed). Will shudders, digging his nails into Hannibal's flesh as he closes his eyes and let's the older man set the pace. He's breathing raggedly, grinding lightly into Hannibal and stupidly gasping every once in awhile like he's never been kissed before.

(But he  _hasn't_ been kissed like this before - sweetly, with single-minded focus, every minuscule variation to be enjoyed...)

* * *

Hannibal wonders for a moment what Will had been expecting. There's a flicker of dazed surprise in his eyes when he draws back the first time, though Hannibal is quick to notice the way blood has rushed to Will's cheeks and he can feel the light, quick, hummingbird beat of Will's pulse against his fingers. Had he been expecting Hannibal to do as he had and  _take?_

Perhaps. Hannibal has no issue with such a prospect save this is not what the kiss is trying to say. It is as much for enjoyment as it is to draw a clear line in the sand. For all his bitterness, all his anger, Hannibal is still capable of kindness, of taking his time. As he looks at Will and observes his reaction, he has to wonder if anyone ever  _has_ taken their time with him. A pity if not.

When Hannibal kisses him again, he allows himself to sink into how this feels. Kissing Will Graham is nothing like kissing anyone else. His sweet-tasting lips are not soft and full. They are chapped and warm, rough in a thrilling way that mirrors Hannibal's feelings toward Will's stubble. It's rough, scratching his skin despite the hot water softening it. He can feel it scraping against his own, having grown out ever so slightly since he'd shaved that morning. Will's stubble is a clear reminder that he's kissing a  _man_.

As Hannibal leans into the kiss and files as much away about this moment as he can, Will edges closer and traps one of Hannibal's thighs between his knees, pressing in close and it is  _very_ evident then that he's kissing a man. Will's hands settle rough on his biceps with callused fingers and strength and it hardly matters then that Hannibal has never found himself attracted to a man before. He's attracted to this one, even now.

Will kisses him back, softly at first, and then pushing. He's careful not to push too hard, granted, allowing Hannibal the freedom of leading this moment. Even so, Will's tongue eagerly meets his own and Hannibal strokes his thumbs slowly over Will's jaw, his cheek, aware of the roll and drag of Will's hips, the way he's rubbing himself against Hannibal's leg and gasping so sweetly.

Hannibal merely breathes a soft sound into the kiss, approving. He hasn't lost his own desire for this man, but his focus is on this, on kissing Will. The bite of nails into his skin stings sweetly but Hannibal pays it no mind beyond how pleasant it is, his focus on the slightly slick slide of Will's lips and tongue over his own and the velvet heat against his thigh. Hannibal considers the positioning and then slowly draws Will in closer, slotting his leg firmly against Will's cock, allowing him the freedom to grind against Hannibal's skin.

It's as mesmerizing as it is thrilling to know that Will is so affected by being kissed that he needs to work out his distraction in another way. Though Hannibal feels some friction from Will's hip, his focus is not on his own pleasure beyond the press of lips. This feels important. This feels like he should allow Will this freedom. An allowance. An acknowledgement.

Hannibal takes the time to stroke his face, to gently suck at Will's tongue, to tease each of his lips until Will's pulse quickens under his fingers. He's careful and light, a teasing brush of lips one moment, the barest threat of a scrape of teeth, and then Hannibal leans in once more to kiss Will properly, to taste him, licking into his mouth, taking but slowly. His own breathing is perhaps a little heavier, his own desire clear, but Hannibal only kisses this man, losing himself in this long-held desire for far longer than he intends.

He kisses the very breath from Will's lungs.

* * *

Will had expected a show of roughness, of teeth clashing and Hannibal taking. He'd expected an attempt to have himself thrown off balance and caught off guard. Given their night, the anger, the sting of betrayal, the bitterness, his rudeness, Will's request to be pushed, such roughness would have seemed fitting. Necessary even. Yes, Will had expected Hannibal to exert force, to take, to claim, to bite back, to make him bleed. Will had opened up and showed some vulnerability, but he'd almost hoped it could be overlooked and discarded. (It would appear not.)

It's his first time kissing a man. It should feel wrong. Stranger. Far stranger, really, but Will doesn't exactly mind the not so subtle differences such as the rough slide of his stubble against Hannibal's day old growth. There's no smear of lipstick, no smoothness.

It's raw and he's awash in the observations, the little sensations that are new to him. Hannibal allows his not-so frenzied rutting, situating his thigh closer - drawing Will in closer - and this, too, is another reminder for there's body hair and more muscle, but Will doesn't stop rocking against Hannibal's thigh. (He may kind of like the coiled strength present in those muscles; he may like the inherent danger that is Hannibal Lecter.)

It's an unhurried but thorough dance and Will keens into Hannibal, basking in the attention and feeling both dizzy and tense at the same time. He's trembling by the time Hannibal's teeth graze their hello and Will gives an unhappy whine as nothing comes of it. (He needs it to be sharper, needs it to be messier - it's what he's used to.) But Hannibal leads them along at his own pace, tasting and teasing and it's almost worshipful. Will wants to be aggravated, wants to push for more, to show Hannibal that he doesn't need it to be sweet and tender, but for some reason he can't.

Will lets himself be worshiped, lets himself be be devoured in Hannibal's kiss and his own response feels awkward, almost clumsy. He's lost, inexperienced in this because Will's never actually kissed  _this long_ before. Kissing had always been a precursor to something more, something else, but Hannibal doesn't seem to be leading them anywhere...

And maybe it's fine. Maybe this is exactly what he needs. The thought is unbidden and Will clings to Hannibal, pleasure buzzing through him and he flicks his tongue against the pointed ends of sharp canines. He pictures them covered in blood, how it would feel and taste to lick Hannibal's teeth clean--

His hips jerk and Will comes with a strangled and surprised cry. He hadn't even thought he was close. His eyes snap open as his cock pulsates, come splattering onto Hannibal's leg. Will's chest heaves, he shakes, dumbfounded by the orgasm that had snuck up on him.

* * *

There are other ways to push a man than with violence, and Hannibal makes that exceedingly clear as he kisses Will, drinking in each and every flicker of response, of sound. The din of the water falling in the shower is little but background noise and warmth, a soft percussion that matches the fluttering beat of Will's heart under Hannibal's hands. He kisses Will with purpose, soft and deep, never pushing too far, never biting.

He hints at possibilities, scraping his teeth over Will's lower lip enough that Will whines softly under his breath, undoubtedly wishing to push for more but unwilling to disturb this moment. Pressed so close to Hannibal's body, his hips grinding against Hannibal's thigh, the moment is not his to disturb. Will may be the one moving, but Hannibal is the one holding, pulling him close and keeping him there. Will is the one actively seeking pleasure but Hannibal is the one deigning to grant it.

It makes sense that Will is responding so enthusiastically. Hannibal is not blind. He knows that not touching Will while washing him had been unkind. To a man so often starved for touch, granting him this must be bordering on overwhelming. Hannibal cares little. Will isn't pushing. He isn't demanding even if he clearly wants to. Instead he shivers softly, kissing back with enthusiasm, though almost haltingly, like he's uncertain how to respond to being kissed like this. Hannibal wonders if he's ever been kissed with the intention of the kissing itself feeling good. Likely not. So he takes his time, decides to create these new memories, painting over Will's perception with an entirely new brush as his tongue and teeth pull the most enticing sounds from Will's throat.

Will's grip is painfully tight on his arms but Hannibal doesn't hurry. He doesn't shove Will back, doesn't  _force_. He merely cups his face, tasting him (and perhaps microscopic traces of himself, which is a pleasing thought). Hannibal can taste remnants of his own blood in Will's mouth, but under it all is simply Will. He tastes like addiction, a dark sweetness akin to absinthe. Dangerous and all-encompassing, and Hannibal can nearly taste the arousal between them as he swallows down Will's harsher breaths and sounds.

When Will's tongue traces over the sharpness of his teeth, Hannibal scents the sudden spike on the air. It comes as no surprise to him that Will is close, and while he makes no move to stop kissing Will, he does press closer, does shift his thigh  _just_ enough. Then he opens his eyes slightly, just enough to watch as Will suddenly jerks against him with a soft cry that Hannibal selfishly muffles with his mouth. The sound is only for him, and he swears he can taste it as Will falls apart, shuddering against him, looking as shocked as Hannibal has ever seen him. Hannibal breaks the kiss just enough to allow Will to breathe, but he doesn't pull away.

One of his hands slides down Will's throat, thumb pressing against Will's pounding pulse. He does little more than stroke his hand over Will's skin, palm brushing over the swell of Will's chest, skirting over a nipple, moving down to the powerfully flexing muscles of Will's abdomen as he comes. Above all else, Hannibal keeps him close, brushing softer kisses over Will's lips, hinting ever so slightly at a bite only to allow it to fade into a suck to Will's lower lip. It's like this - soft kisses and broad, sweeping touches from Will's clavicle down to his hips - that Hannibal keeps him as pleasure works through him.

He is stunning. Breathing a little rougher himself, Hannibal merely draws back enough to admire the crease of shocked bliss etched into Will's expression. He looks taken aback, stunned, and oh, how Hannibal  _wants_ this man. Betrayal or not, he cannot kill Will Graham.

His hand slides down just barely enough to card his fingers through the rougher hair below Will's navel and he gently runs his fingers down over the length of Will's cock, almost an afterthought.

"Good," Hannibal says simply, wetting his lips before leaning in enough to gently steal another kiss, softer this time. "You look surprised. There is an eroticism to kissing. Sex is not merely stimulation."

* * *

This hadn't been his intention. Will hadn't wanted Hannibal to be kissing him tender and slowly. He hadn't wanted to be undone, to be made to feel breathless and awkward. Unhinged. But no, this is not the same as when Will was losing his touch on reality, not like how he'd felt when he'd been clambering around in Jack's world and trying desperately to be good and catch the 'bad'. (Shiva... Creation. Destruction. Transformation. Is this another becoming?)

Will doesn't want it. Each break is not long enough, each time Hannibal pulls away Will can't get enough air into his lungs. He may be drowning, choking on Hannibal's care, on the sweet brushes of lips, the glide of a tongue. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Will was supposed to be pushed, yes, but not like _this_.

His hands look for purchase, but Hannibal's skin is wet, slick. Will grasps tightly, but it's not enough. He doesn't like this. This is alarming and even with his own poor skills in self-preservation and care, he knows he needs to run. (Pull away; Hannibal would let you. He tells this to himself...)

Will's orgasm, while of course pleasurable, leaves him shaking and undone. Wasn't he stitched up? His frayed edges held together messily, but held together nonetheless. Not tightly enough, apparently. Hannibal's fingers have got in-between the sutures and his fingers spread, tugging and creating gaps... like Ingram crawling his way out of the horse. What's inside of Will? What innards will spill out if Hannibal opens him just enough? (Toxic. Poison. Too much darkness.)

Hannibal watches him, eyes open just enough to observe his performance. (He's not going to be proud over it. Will isn't going to take a bow. This feels snatched from him -  _taken_ from him. He hadn't meant to--)

One of Hannibal's hands travels over his skin, but the touch blurs - one moment it's on his neck, the next it's running down his stomach and over his cock. Will breathes quickly, desperately wanting to rein his body back into something more familiar. Hannibal praises him -  _good_ \- but it might as well have been, 'good boy' for all Will's concerned. Like he's successfully completed a trick.

He frowns and pulls away, his hands letting go of Hannibal as he takes a step back. Thankfully, his body  seems to have stopped shaking and he doesn't slip or fall, despite how unstable he feels on the  _inside._

Will doesn't care for any explanation. Being kissed by Hannibal had left him far too vulnerable, far too affected.

"I'm done here," Will mumbles out and climbs out of the shower with no other preamble. He grabs a fluffy white towel and stalks out of the bathroom, dripping as he hurriedly makes to dry himself off and find clothing (protection, even if it's just on the outside).

* * *

In the moments following Hannibal's explanation, he finds himself distantly curious as to whether this is all it takes to break Will Graham. He looks shaken, his pupils blown wide from the release of oxytocin. Orgasm has swept in unchecked and nearly blinded him, and Hannibal is careful in selecting the pieces that suit him best to look his fill as Will struggles to gather himself back together. He's slow and clumsy with it, leaving his eyes open.

Hannibal doesn't have Will's level of empathy but he cannot deny the opportunity to look. He wonders for a moment just what secrets are behind Will's eyes but he makes no move to covet them, to try and work his way past Will's defenses. As far as Will is concerned, he already has, and Hannibal silently takes pleasure in the way Will casts about, breathless, his face flushed, his eyes wide. He looks - for a moment - like a rabbit backed into a corner before the wall shutters down and Hannibal is left staring at Will's frown, curious what it would take to move it.

He does nothing. Will had asked to be pushed. Hannibal had pushed. It matters little that this isn't what Will had expected that to  _mean_ , but Hannibal hardly cares. It's not in his nature to follow expectations and watching Will's distress when his body smells so sweetly of hormones and pleasure is intoxicating. He doesn't take offense to Will drawing back, hardly spares him another look. The taste of Will's lips is still vibrant upon his own, and he snakes his tongue out to taste it as soon as Will turns away. He has no need to be crude, and he will not fault Will his need for a sudden safe space that makes sense.

Will is vulnerable, shaken. He's shown too much, been  _too_ affected. Hannibal has pushed too far, but not enough to break him. Merely enough to crack him open and peer inside. Wetting his lips again, Hannibal glances down at his leg, at the come half-heartedly being rinsed away by the spray of the shower, and he nods.

"Very well. I will join you shortly," Hannibal says, thinking about the discarded bullets and the knife in the table. He wonders for a moment if he will feel the bite of a bullet from where he stands in mere moments. He wonders if Will would prefer the knife...

Will steps out of the shower and Hannibal silently bends down to pick up the washcloth discarded before. It's soaked through and Hannibal wrings it out, then steps in closer to the spray. His knees are scraped and rough from kneeling upon the pavement and his clavicle is still sluggishly bleeding. Hannibal is silent until Will has left, and then he draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly once more.

He'll give Will fifteen minutes to gather himself back together before attempting to join him. After such a shock to his system, this is hardly a surprise. Hannibal is silent as he lathers the cloth once more with body wash and takes it to his skin. He's silent as he scrapes the bite upon his clavicle to bleeding again and properly flushes it. And he is silent as he considers the way Will's expression had creased in shocked pleasure, the way he'd moaned and choked out his soft noises, the way he'd jerked his hips, and Hannibal presses a fist to the wall as he takes himself in hand and closes his eyes. He's silent when he comes, nothing more than a harsher breath between his teeth and Will's taste upon his tongue.

There is nothing to disinfect the wound with, though Hannibal does spare a thought to the alcohol undoubtedly in the room. If Will hasn't gotten into it, he can use that, though it will be harsh. Hannibal merely finds a cloth to press to the wound until the bleeding eases to little more than a trickle.

When he turns the water off and steps out of the shower twenty minutes later (he'd felt generous and slightly weak-legged following his own orgasm) he pauses only for long enough to grab a towel in order to dry off, and then takes one of the robes the suite had offered. If Will had passed his up, Hannibal has no intention of doing the same. He cinches the ties around his waist, combs his fingers back through his hair, and considers what might await him. Then he merely opens the door and steps out, barefoot, the robe white and half-open at the chest so as to not trail blood across the soft fabric.

* * *

Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Will marches mechanically back into the lavish room, hands rubbing the towel roughly over his skin in an unforgiving manner. When he's deemed himself mostly dry, he drops the towel to the floor and heads to the bed - the bed that they're going to be sharing shortly - and he rummages through his duffel bag, extracting out a thin grey undershirt and a pair of boxers. Compared to the image he presented before, he's returned to his former understated self. At least he hadn't packed any flannel or clothing with grease stains or holes in them...

Once clothed, the shirt only somewhat sticking to his not quite dry back, Will spots the room's mini fridge. It only takes him a second to decide before he's walking over and crouching down. He opens the appliance, and spotting whatever complimentary bottles of alcohol, he grabs a few. Will straightens up, his hands, thankfully, not shaking as he unscrews the cap off of the first little bottle and he downs it one go. He repeats the process twice more and then rubs his hands over his face.

Shit. He'd practically fled the shower like he'd been caught committing a crime. His mouth tastes like a mix of hard, but expensive alcohol and yet Will still can recall the taste of Hannibal, he can remember the slow seductive slide of his tongue. His fingertips run across his overly-kissed lips and immediately scolds himself.

"Come on, stop thinking about it," Will mutters.

The problem is if he's not thinking (and stressing about) the make-out session, his mind has decided to treat him to images and thoughts concerning Hannibal pulling open stitches, of the doctor trying to get inside of his chest, to his heart. (Will's seen enough Y-incisions on corpses... Maybe he'll be next, for if Hannibal finds out ahead of time...) If it's not sutures down his chest that Hannibal is clawing at, the next scenario is Hannibal trying to pick his head open like Will is Frankenstein. Well, wasn't everyone interested in his brain? Hannibal was at the top of that list.

Will resists the urge to fling the tiny bottles. He's not going to have a tantrum. Grotesque thoughts are nothing new. The fucking situation he's in, however... Will sighs and removes his bag from the bed. Which side to claim as his own, the closest to the door? Will's too tired for this shit. To be paranoid and think about the implications of where he chooses to sleep.

He decides to crawl onto the side furthest from the the bathroom. He burrows under the layers of blankets and sheets, not liking how crisp and white they are. Despite the high thread count and softness, they remind him of the hospital. Will faces the bathroom, head poking out from under the covers and he lays still listening to the sound of the shower. He's fairly certain Hannibal is taking his time, likely for his sake, too.

Will eventually relaxes, his mind focusing on the sound of the rain outside. He's distracted and drifting that he's not caught the shower turning off. He thinks about blood washing down the bath drain, imagines himself washing away on the road while he tried to assert his dominance with a gun... Would Hannibal step around him? An unsightly puddle of Will Graham that sought to ruin a nice shoe.

When he hears Hannibal emerge he yawns, coming back to the present, his tired eyes tracking Hannibal across the room.

"I still have nightmares. So, if I wake you or you find yourself drenched in my sweat, sorry."

He's not really sorry, but he'd rather just get the his warning out of the way.

* * *

Nothing looks different save the slight movement of the mini-fridge and an addition of empty bottles that Hannibal makes a vague mental note to add to the bill. It takes him only seconds to see Will in bed, to see the way he's curled himself up under the sheets as far away from the bathroom door as possible. Hannibal catches sight of something grey on Will's skin and reasons he's changed into one of his undershirts but otherwise very little between them is different. He's silent as he steps into the room, distantly noting the fatigue held deep in Will's eyes - exactly as Hannibal had hoped for - and he simply nods a mild greeting.

Hannibal is quiet as he walks around the room. Will's voice, when it sounds from the bed, is low and sleepy. Hannibal spares him only a glance - damp, messy hair, skin still pink from the shower, expression lax with relaxation - and then turns back.

He's quiet as he checks the drawer he'd stashed the knife and bullets in, counting them all and both surprised and relieved to find they're still all there. Then he steps over to the mini-fridge and carefully lowers himself down, allowing the silence to reign between them for long enough for Hannibal to find a small bottle of vodka. It's hardly the quality or the liquor he would have chosen for himself, yet it will still do in a pinch. He closes the fridge with the bottle in hand and twists the top off, touching the top of the bottle to his fingers and tipping it just enough to splash some of the vodka in his hand. He then presses it to the wound and merely waits for the flare of pain to pass before re-applying it. He does this silently, waiting until the wound no longer stings when touched with the alcohol. Then he eyes the rest of the bottle, considers, and tips the rest of it back into his mouth.

The burn is smoother than some vodka, perhaps, but he still doesn't  _enjoy_ it. This evening, given all they have been through, however, feels like it would likely be improved with alcohol. Hannibal only indulges in that one bottle and when he turns back to Will, he nods.

"I am aware of your sleeping habits, though I do appreciate the warning. With luck your nightmares will not be as severe tonight. You had none in the car."

None that had been severe enough to register, anyway. Hannibal doesn't say this. Instead he merely steps over to the bag he'd brought with him and resumes his silence, digging out a pair of underwear from the depths of the bag. He has no qualms with sleeping in the nude, though he wishes to at least be somewhat kind to Will, all things considered. He pulls them on and then steps over to the door, checking that it's locked. Only then does Hannibal silently hit the light to the room and cast it in darkness before making his way over to the side of the bed that Will has so kindly left open for him. After he'd checked the extent of the damage to his throat in the mirror, he'd half-expected Will to further the irritation by splaying himself wide across the bed out of spite. That he has chosen instead to calm down, his anger muted by fatigue and his eyes lidded with exhaustion, is nothing but a godsend.

Hannibal is quiet as he looks down at Will in the darkness. He now knows what this man tastes like in more than one way. He has sampled his blood, his semen, his saliva. He has tasted his moans and keens, has tasted Will's need and desperation. He knows now what Will Graham looks like when he comes. He also knows what he looks like when he's trembling apart, stunned by intimacy, and overwhelmed.

And now he silently admires how Will looks when tired, his fire burning low in his hearth, his eyes half-lidded and dazed, his muscles far more relaxed. Perhaps he's alarmed still, but his muscles are relaxed. Hannibal admires the look only for a moment before he slides the robe from his shoulders and quietly eases into bed, laying back on soft sheets and a firm mattress and drawing the blankets up over him. Will is a warmth at his side.

"If I see you having a nightmare, I will do what I can to ease it, or wake you. Get some rest, Will."

* * *

Will watches Hannibal. The man moves quietly, unflappable as ever as he gives a nod of acknowledgement. Will wonders how many unfortunate people Hannibal has snuck up on. Unsuspecting animals to him, their doe eyes unaware, going about their lives oblivious of the predator lurking. As sharp as Miriam Lass had been, Hannibal had obviously got the jump on her. How would Hannibal have fared against Jack Crawford... and him? (A sick part of him delights in the idea of Hannibal facing off against Jack, possibly because he doesn't know who he would want to win.)

Hannibal doesn't reply right away, first going to a drawer and checking on its contents. Mind a little hazy from exhaustion, it takes a moment for Will to figure out that the knife and gun have likely been stashed away there. He probably should care about keeping better track of the weapons, but now it almost seems silly to care about them. Hannibal himself is a weapon - he needed no tool to carry out his destruction. Will doesn't know if he's offended by the implication that Hannibal thought he may have been distraught enough to go searching for a weapon. (Yeah, he'd reacted somewhat badly to kissing and coming in the shower like an excited teenager, but really? He wasn't about to grab a knife and lie in wait.)

Will says nothing as Hannibal next heads to the mini fridge and grabs his own bottle. At first the sight is incredulous, but it all comes together quickly enough as Hannibal disinfects the wound on his clavicle. Will watches him and he has no remorse for drawing blood. Truthfully, he's more pleased at the lurid mark that's been left high up on the doctor's neck for all to see.

Not to be out done in offering his own surprises, Hannibal does actually finish the bottle off. It seems absurd for Hannibal to be drinking anything directly from a bottle, but before Will can decide whether or not he wants to comment on it, Hannibal is finally replying to his warning. Will doesn't know what to say to the words because he  _had_ dreamed. He often does, though. But what would sleeping next to Hannibal produce? Mix three drops of Hannibal into the beaker that contains whatever's left of Will Graham and stir slowly... (It seems unimaginable to consider that sleeping next to him could potentially help.) Will has zoned out and by the time he feels the bed shift he opens his eyes and is greeted to darkness.

_‘If I see you having a nightmare, I will do what I can to ease it, or wake you...'_

The idea of Hannibal looking after him - of waking him up - is actually comforting. It probably shouldn't be. Will only mutters out an, "Okay," before closing his eyes. The rain continues on and he tries to breathe deeply and ease himself closer to sleep.

It doesn't work. Will's mind is aware of the enigma beside him, likely waiting for  _him_ to fall asleep first.

"I dream of the dead and of you far too often," Will murmurs.

It almost feels like a confession, but Will isn't interested in being absolved. He's not interested in Hannibal's insight or opinions either. Will rolls over to Hannibal, the space diminishing between them as he quickly lifts his arm, resting it on Hannibal's chest before covering Hannibal’s mouth with his palm, thumb against a defined cheekbone.

"Don't speak." The instruction isn't said unkindly, Will's thumb stroking softly back and forth against Hannibal's cheek. He's made his point - his request - but Will doesn't move his hand away.

Hannibal could shrug him off, push him away, but Will is fairly certain it won't happen. There's not much space, heat radiating between them as Will rests his head against a shoulder. His guard is down and after everything that had transpired, this hardly feels that strange.

"You weren't the only one consumed," Will continues.

He says nothing for a few minutes, enjoying the rise and fall of Hannibal's chest (it's stable, calming). He can also feel him exhale through his nostrils against the back of his hand. Will yawns.

"The wendigo... It looks contained, but I think it's ravenous... on the inside." His own breathing has slowed considerably. Will's grasp against Hannibal's mouth is now feather light.

"You'd step around me, wouldn't you, if I was a puddle in your way... Wouldn't want to dirty a nice loafer or whatever you wear, after all. But - uhm - I'd rather you step in me." Will's slurring his words, his tone gentle as sleep draws him in. "Ruin your shoes... Stain you."

* * *

Hannibal has no qualms in sleeping next to another, but he does have them with falling asleep  _first_. There is power in watching another fall asleep, in watching them make themselves vulnerable. Yet that vulnerability is not something Hannibal allows himself, and he will do no such thing beside a man like Will Graham. Even the predators must learn to guard their backs, for who is to say they are at the top of the food chain? Hannibal considers this distantly as he settles in for the night, as he listens to Will's slightly stuttered breathing beside him, proving that he's still awake.

Will hadn't gone for the gun, or the bullets. He hadn't gone for the knife. Hannibal is not fool enough to assume this means he  _won't_. Yes, Will has chosen him, but he'd chosen Jack not ten hours ago. Will is a pendulum swinging forcibly, and there is no guarantee that he will remain in Hannibal's corner. There is no foundation. There is no hope for foundation between them, not yet. Whether or not that will change is up to the both of them and what comes during the next few days.

Will doesn't sleep, though Hannibal can feel him tiring. His small micro-movements ease into something lazier, into something sluggish and warm, but it isn't until Will suddenly speaks a few minutes later that Hannibal opens his eyes and looks over at him. He can see very little in the dark, but he hardly has to. Hannibal merely waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark and considers Will's words.

He features heavily in Will's dreams, then. Hannibal will take what he can get there, but before he can draw breath to respond, Will surprises him by rolling over closely and draping an arm across his chest. More than that, he's surprised as Will lightly lays a hand over his mouth. Immediately Hannibal frowns, for the action is  _rude_ , but the casual stroke of Will's thumb over his cheek both softens the blow and makes him still.

The follow-up request is just calm, soft, and Hannibal considers whether or not to grant it before grudgingly allowing this. He has gotten to kiss this man, to feel him, to  _see_ him. He's in a benevolent mood now and he is content to merely watch Will.

Breathing slow and even, so much so that he could have easily already been asleep were it not for his open eyes, Hannibal waits patiently as Will slowly eases closer. He wouldn't have dared to speak anyway, with Will pressing so close. The rest of Will's head against his shoulder is gentle and Hannibal considers it for a long moment before daring to shift. He moves so slowly that Will likely can't track it, little shifts as he moves his arm back enough to make room for Will against his side. Even so he doesn't push, doesn't force. He merely allows Will to lapse into his comfortable silence.

By the time Will yawns, looking exhausted, his voice slurring and weak, Hannibal has an arm carefully wrapped around him, his palm flat on Will's back, Will's head pillowed comfortably on his shoulder. It feels pointed and careful. Hannibal hardly dares to move as Will's voice breaks into something softer, making slightly less sense.

He cares little; he doesn't wish to startle Will away as he draws him in closer, so close that were Hannibal to tilt his head, he'd be able to press his face to Will's damp hair.

Will's touch is light now, his voice barely a whisper in the dark.

Hannibal knows he'd need only to tilt his head and Will's hand would fall away but he resists the urge as Will speaks of wendigos (curious, but considering the legend, not an unexpected comparison) and being ravenous. Will's voice fades even more then and for a moment Hannibal finds himself wondering if he can hear a soft lilt in Will's voice, an accent long-buried. It's soft, almost cautious. Hannibal merely glances at Will, and seeing as he looks more than half-asleep, Hannibal just silently gives in and tightens his hold. He presses Will closer and brushes his lips over Will's palm before gently easing it down to rest upon his shoulder instead. Will is a warm weight against him; normally Hannibal doesn't enjoy being weighed down, but for Will he's willing to make an exception.

"Dear Will," Hannibal says softly, almost too low to be heard, for he knows Will is mere seconds from sleep. "You have already ruined me. You've stained me far deeper than you will ever know."

Hannibal sighs softly and turns just enough to brush his lips over Will's forehead. It's bold, and it brings with it a careful ache. He had once ached to have this, and now that he does, it feels like sand falling between his fingers, like trying to hold water with his bare hand.

"Sleep. You may stain me more tomorrow."

* * *

Will sleeps and doesn't dream. He only wakes when he's gently jostled by Hannibal attempting to disentangle himself. Apparently Will has attached himself to Hannibal like a barnacle at some point during the night. (It should be embarrassing, but he's waking up and feeling rather numb from their previous night.)

With a sleepy confused grunt, Will eventually releases his hold. He rolls over into the now vacant spot, drinking up leftover warmth from Hannibal. He distantly hears Hannibal make a few hushed phone calls from the bathroom but Will doesn't care to attempt to eavesdrop. (He's made his decision, whatever Hannibal does or doesn't want to share... Will is going to have live with it.) His cuddling isn't brought up nor are any of last night's events. Will's grateful for this so he behaves and gets out of bed when Hannibal asks him to.

Hannibal orders in room service. While it's no champagne or strawberries, breakfast is rather delicious and free of any other human remains so it's a bonus. He's told that they're flying to San Antonio, Texas, in three hours. Will accepts this piece of information with a small shrug. He's slightly curious as to why _there_ , but this - them running away together - is all on Hannibal's dime, so Will accepts his role of the clueless companion. He'll find out soon enough, he thinks.

It's not entirely subconscious, but Will puts on the same clothing he had worn when he'd shown up for his standing appointment with Hannibal to resume his therapy. The same coarse-feeling salmon colored button-down, belt, and decently fitted slacks. The only difference is this time Will slips on his glasses. (He doesn't physically need them, no, but they are another means to separate him from the eyes of others.) They pack their belongings, slightly rain-damp clothes slipped into plastic bags before being packed up. When they leave the hotel, Will keeps his head down and hovers close to Hannibal. He's never been a great flyer and that compounded with  _who_ he's flying with has Will's nerves increasing.

From the trunk of the Bentley, he's given a new identity - Ethan Reyes from Indiana. Will holds the new passport in his hand and looks outside at the dreary wetness. (He doesn't know what to feel knowing that Hannibal had truly gone to these lengths for him...)

"I've always liked the smell of rain," Will says randomly as Hannibal pulls out of the parking lot of the hotel. He's tempted to turn and gaze at the older man, but he resists, making a pointed effort to simply watch the scenery as they drive to the airport.

* * *

Despite the rough end to the evening the night before, the night goes well. Will stirs only a few times, his voice idly caught in distress, and Hannibal wakes enough to first observe and then soothe away what he perceives to be nightmares, as he had promised. When he wakes in the morning, it is to Will wrapped around him, his arms loose with sleep but his legs tangled and head pillowed close. Hannibal stills, rough with sleep, and allows himself to merely enjoy the few seconds of peace, allows himself to reflect on how many times he had ached for  _this_ to be what he'd always wake up to.

While he understands the  _why_ of Will's betrayal now, it doesn't soften the blow. Hannibal lays in silence until the bitterness gets the better of him and then he eases out of Will's hold. It takes time, Will's limbs everywhere and less willing to let him go, but he insists anyway, and leaves his companion curled up on his spot on the bed as he grabs the hotel phone, shrugs his robe back on, and walks to the bathroom.

When Will finally rises, it's to breakfast Hannibal has ordered, though that had not been the reason for his call. He answers the door for room service graciously, though doesn't miss the quick dart of the woman's eyes. She looks up, seemingly fixated on his neck, and then he remembers Will's mark. It's only years of practice that school his expression. He takes the food back to Will and quickly opts to check on the mark in the mirror, and, sure enough, it's as obvious as he'd feared. Were it only a circular bruise, it could be explained away, but Hannibal's lips thin in displeasure at the sight f the dark, almost-black center and the clear bruise in the shape of Will's bite. It  _looks_ like he's been bitten, and like he'd made no effort to push his partner away.

His displeasure is obvious when they eat but Hannibal says nothing. When they both dress later, Will in a very familiar outfit that has Hannibal wondering if it's something he's done on purpose or not, and Hannibal in a spare set of clothes he'd packed away in his emergency bag - white button down and slate-grey suit jacket, slacks, and vest, with a patterned tie - Hannibal remains silent. The conversation they have is careful. Hannibal merely gathers up their belongings, pocketing his knife and Will's bullets. When they leave the hotel, Hannibal changes again, the man behind the counter undoubtedly recognizing him.

He's called "Dr. Fischer" and is the picture of sheepish, gracious smiles as he again thanks the man for his thoughtfulness. For a moment, he considers the knife in his pocket when knowing eyes dart to his throat but Hannibal merely allows himself a small smile and bids him farewell. He'll live, but Hannibal will remember him.

There is no FBI presence outside, and no cars idling nearby that give any indication that they are being watched. From the trunk of his Bentley, Hannibal fishes out one of the identities that he had thought to purchase for Will only a few weeks ago. It feels slightly bitter to be handing him his passport but Hannibal doesn't comment on it, merely loading up the trunk before Will joins him again in the car. He is not expecting Will's comment about the rain, though the scent  _had_ lingered. Hannibal is silent for a few seconds as he pulls out of the parking lot and back onto the main street, then nods.

"Petrichor," he says. "The sweet scent during and after a rain. Particularly when the soil has gone without it for some time."

Silence falls again as Hannibal drives to the airport. As much as he hates doing so, once they have parked, he unlocks the car and glances at his keys. Silently he removes everything else from the keychain - his house keys, his mailbox key, a few points cards - and pockets them all. Then he allows his keys to merely fall back on his seat, as though they had merely slipped out of his pocket. He makes no move to pick them back up, instead getting out of the car and walking back to their bags in the trunk. Hannibal is silent as he slips the knife from his pocket and takes a cloth from one of the bags, wiping it down thoroughly before leaving it behind. Then he walks to Will's door and silently requests his gun before wiping it down as well and slipping it silently into the glove compartment along with the bullets. Perhaps one day someone will kill someone with the gun and Jack Crawford will lift his head and sound the alarm, but it will not be them.

He's silent as he gathers his bags and packs the extra cards away into a side-pouch on the bag. It's hardly more than carry-on and he takes Will's bag and hands it to him before closing the trunk. One glance at the Bentley is all he allows himself before walking off toward the door, leaving the keys behind. He will not be returning for the car.

Inside the airport is bustling with activity and Hannibal idly shrugs his shoulders higher, a vague attempt to cover the mark on his neck, but he knows it's pointless. Shooting Will a look of irritation, he stands tall, does what he can to own the annoyance, and goes to pick up their tickets and check their baggage.

* * *

Will remains quiet as he watches Hannibal take care of fingerprints with the swipe of a cloth. The car is to be left behind, Will understands, like his dogs, his house, Hannibal's house, his practice. Their former lives. The implications - the consequences - of their decision... Will's sure that it's impossible for him to fully realize and  _feel_ it all. They've barely even started this undertaking and his footing has been shaky at best. There's no precedent for them. No map. He'd trusted Hannibal before to be his paddle and he'd been capsized.

But Will is going to have to trust Hannibal Lecter again. (Maybe he's the fool, after all.) He doesn't know what love means to Hannibal, it would have to be some twisted perversion, but Will hopes whatever it is, it ensures his survival with the minimal amount of games thrown his way. Will has his own gamble to be concerned over, after all. He can't be worried over what Hannibal's curiosity may be pushing him to do.

Next to Hannibal, Will's aware that he looks shabby. He follows closely through the airport, almost hovering. The hustle and bustle is agitating, but he keeps his head down and glasses pushed up.

Nikolas Fischer and Ethan Reyes make it through security perfectly fine, and it's likely Hannibal's pleasant demeanor that helps that along. Will shouldn't be surprised to find that they're seated in first class. He takes the window seat, wanting to be further away from others and the overly cheery flight attendants. A bubbly young thing - Caroline - makes it up to him quickly enough by offering them a drink. Free booze won't be passed up by Will Graham.

Hannibal orders some kind of champagne and Will decides on the same, wanting something sweet. He's in the process of removing his coat and marveling at the space he has when she returns with their beverages.

"This your first time, sir?" Texan accent. He can hear the damn friendly smile that's surely plastered on her face.

"What? Flying?" Will takes the glass from her, flustered as Hannibal watches the exchange. She purposefully brushes her fingers against his own. He's not the usual suspect to be chatted up by women and Hannibal witnessing it has Will more on edge.

"Naw, silly, in first class."

Had he been that noticeable? "That obvious, huh..." He replies, disparagingly, running his other hand through his hair before taking a sip. "It's good." 

Not that he needed to comment on it. Technically Hannibal had selected it, too. Will Graham - always a huge hit with the ladies.

She giggles, head tilting to the side. Will chances a look at her actual eyes and immediately she's identified as someone who  _likes_ his awkwardness. She finds it  _cute_. (If only she knew who he really was underneath his nervous behavior.) It's then Will realizes that he's not going to be having anything to do with the opposite sex for quite some time. Will feels at a loss for what to do right now, so he decides to be blatant and stop this before he embarrasses himself further - he swallows nervously before reaching out for Hannibal's free hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No one has ever compromised me as you have, and I wish only that I could have excised the issue when it so clearly had wished my downfall. Yet I could not, and I cannot. You have not only stained me, you've bled beneath my skin. So deeply that I fear any attempt to remove you would be fatal. You don't know what's to come, and neither do I. I cannot predict you. You are... volatile. An explosion. I can hope only to contain the damage, not prevent it. Yet still I remain within the blast radius, for I would rather watch your brilliance and fire than move to safety."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And away we go! Vroom airplane shenanigans.╰(°ㅂ°)╯
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you [attic-nights](http://attic-nights.tumblr.com) for the beta!

It's a simple matter to obtain tickets, check baggage, and make it through security. While a few of the guards send Will uncertain looks (he's bearded and looks significantly uncomfortable, but there's nothing Hannibal can do about that) Hannibal eases their suspicion by looking back at Will, rolling his eyes in a parody of fondness, and beckoning him over. While Hannibal's features are perhaps more exotic, he's also well-dressed, polite, and gracious. Slipping through security is simple despite Will's caginess making certain parts of it a problem. A few people glance their way - and a few more glance at Hannibal's neck - but ultimately they are soon boarding with only a ten-minute delay, which is relatively quick for last-minute flights.

With the scent of fresh rain on the runway, they board in silence, both their bags counting as carry-on, so Hannibal merely shoulders both and gestures for Will to follow him onto the plane. He has no qualms about allowing Will the window seat when they reach First Class, the seats plush and comfortable and ever so slightly curved for proper ergonomics. There is plenty of space between them, though not enough to make speaking difficult, and while Hannibal hardly bats an eye at the leg room, Will seems immediately taken by it.

Hannibal calmly orders champagne from a young lady who he nods politely to, but it isn't until she returns with their drinks (he doesn't fail to notice that Will has ordered what he had) that he notices the way her gaze lingers on Will. Hannibal's frown is subtle and hidden with the first sip of his champagne.

The woman - Caroline, her name tag says - is not subtle. Hannibal watches quietly as her fingers brush Will's and he casts a casual glance between them even as something vicious rears its head within him. He takes note of the flustered expression on Will's face and watches as Will looks at him. He knows. It's entirely likely he knows what Hannibal would do to this girl were they not on a flight. That Will knows is enough, yet he still glances back at Caroline and studies her perhaps a little closer than he needs to. She, of course, merely takes it as positive attention and not that the man seated beside the scruffy gentleman is envisioning making her swallow her own tongue.

Hannibal is uncertain whether Will's actions are a direct result of his fear  _that_  Hannibal will act on those impulses or merely because the attention is overwhelming him. Whatever the reason, Hannibal's attention is casually on Caroline when he feels the careful touch against his hand. He doesn't startle, but he does blink, glancing back down at his hand for a split second and then back at Will to see if the touch had been in error. A single glance proves that it hadn't been and Hannibal looks at him - studying the tense line of his shoulders and the decidedly uncomfortable set to his eyes behind his glasses - and makes his decision.

He turns his hand over, palm-up, and allows Will to take hold of it, giving it a small squeeze even though it likely isn't necessary. He doesn't have to look to see the shock on the flight attendant's face. Hannibal can feel her gaze jumping from Will, to him, and back again. Hannibal simply turns back to his champagne and takes a sip, then glances back up at Caroline. Sure enough, she looks taken aback, perhaps a little disappointed, but mostly just stunned.

"He is unused to treating himself," Hannibal supplies, with a thread of the exasperated fondness one might find in a long-term partner. "Thank you, Caroline."

"Uh, you're... you're welcome," Caroline stammers back. To her credit, she bounces back quickly, with only a slightly visible pinch to her brow. She looks at their clasped hands once - something Hannibal takes silent delight in. Before she turns to go, however, she blinks and something else catches her eye.

Hannibal knows what it is immediately and it's only through sheer force of will that he avoids the urge to close his eyes in frustration. Caroline's eyes dip down near the top of his collar and he briefly considers smashing the champagne glass and stabbing her through at the knowing little  _smirk_  she shoots between the two of them. Hannibal tightens his hold on Will's hand almost imperceptibly.

"Right, well. You two need anything, just give me a ring, okay? I hope you enjoy your flight!" She sends them a final look, knowing, nowhere near as subtle as she likely believes.

Hannibal waits only until she's dealing with another person three rows behind them before he turns to send Will a mildly pinched look. It is not the expression of a man pleased with what has just been implied.

* * *

Unlike Will, Hannibal hasn't actually vocalized his jealousy or possessiveness. It's been demonstrated, in Hannibal taking away Abigail, and in Hannibal directing Mason at the unborn child growing in Margot's womb. Yes, Hannibal doesn't like sharing his toys. Will is no exception to this.

Will can sense Hannibal's displeasure that Caroline is being flirty with him. He registers it underneath his initial reaction to the attention (because yes, feminine attention is a rare treat and  _does_  make him feel good). But more important than his own ego boost is Hannibal's penchant for punishing whomever he deems deserves it.

(He reaches for Hannibal's hand. This is the first time ever doing such a thing and it's a simple gesture, really, it shouldn't feel like it's monumental, but maybe--)

A few agonizing seconds go by in which Hannibal considers him, likely searching for the reason why Will has chosen to seek him out. Eventually (it can't have been that long), Hannibal turns over his hand and Will grasps it. Will stares down at their connected body parts and Hannibal, thankfully, sees fit to take over talking to Caroline.

 _‘He is unused to treating himself.’_ Hannibal doesn't sound like himself, not really. Another performance, another facade presented (although Will can admit there's likely truth in the statement).

A slimy voice in Will's mind points out that he could have - perhaps should have - sought to flirt back, to push Hannibal and rub her interest in his face. It's the angry, petty side of him, a side Will needs to be wary about, a side he needs to desperately keep in check. As tempting as it could have been to witness Hannibal's reaction, potentially endangering an innocent woman? Will should know better; Will should care...

When she pauses before taking her leave, Will does glance up, curious. He immediately sees her eyes dart between the blatant hickey on Hannibal's neck and himself. Her glossy red lips curve into a knowing smirk. Will knows Hannibal doesn't care for it one bit. Hannibal doesn't want to be considered as someone who  _receives_  such things. Will takes another drink of the champagne. And then another before he downs it and sets the glass on the fold-out tray.

He tucks his head into Hannibal's shoulder, talking softly. "I assume you're going to tell me not to leave any marks where the public can see them?" There's a note of amusement in his voice. He's still a little jittery, a culmination of his usual nerves from flying, of all the unknowns and of the enigmatic force sitting beside him.

"I quite like it on you. You can give me one if you want it to be even."

Is he joking? Will doesn't even know.

* * *

Hannibal has very few issues with Will lashing out and staking a claim. That Will had so quickly jumped from cowed and uncertain to aggressive the evening before, that he had delighted in the knowledge he'd hurt Hannibal before they had both stepped back and down into their own unique stand-off doesn't bother him. What bothers him is  _where_  Will had chosen to bite.

There is no covering the mark without a cosmetic aide, and the time of year isn't appropriate for scarves or high-collared jackets. Even if it was, Hannibal doesn't have any at his disposal. No, those are all back at the house, where he has already instructed Abigail on what to do. He hadn't merely been calling for room service earlier that morning.

He wonders vaguely if Will had intended to bite as high as he had or if he'd simply done so on autopilot. Hannibal wonders if it would change his perception of the events were it to be so. Likely not. Little will change his irritation at such a blatant mark being placed on skin he cannot hide. That it is as deep as it is also sparks irritation. Under his shirt, the bite to his clavicle throbs, even more so when Will leans over and presses his head to Hannibal's shoulder.

Glancing down at Will with a clear frown, Hannibal considers merely moving his shoulder away but decides against it. He may be annoyed, but he still wishes Will's company. Sighing, frustrated, he leans back in his seat and lifts the champagne to his lips, sipping it properly instead of downing it as Will had.

"Of course you like it on me," Hannibal replies thinly. Will's offer doesn't escape his notice and the thought does have merit, but not now. "You are more than aware of what biting and leaving marks behind signifies. You have studied it for many years, seen into the minds of many an individual who delights in such things."

Keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard by anyone else, Hannibal glances down to where their hands remain clasped together. He studies the differences between their hands, how callused Will's fingers are compared to his own.

"While I appreciate the offer, I'm afraid I must decline. A mark such as the one you left is easily recognizable. I hold hope that people will prefer to look at the mark instead of our faces, perhaps, but two men wearing the same blatant  _claim?_  No. It would be reckless."

Though Hannibal doesn't say it, he doesn't have to. Will is reckless.

* * *

Will doesn't hold any designs on what he will or won't do. How can he know how they will deal with each other, how they will push and pull, jerk and crash into one another? He has removed a mask, admitted his half-deception and in doing so he's revealing himself more fully. Being more honest (so to speak).

This plan of his hasn't been thought out in the least. Reservations exist, but they seem to be quickly discarded on a whim if he deems his greater goal worth it. At least that's what he tells himself. Will Graham is an impulsive and reckless man. He wants to blame Hannibal for exacerbating the issue, but...

Hannibal answers  _no_ ; there is to be no reciprocity for the mark Will gifted high up on his neck. (Practical. Predictable.) A  _claim_ , Hannibal had called it, but was it truly? Will can't even recall what was going through his head at that time. He knows Hannibal was goading him - pushing him - and it must have gone too far for Will to retaliate like he had.

But he likes the look of it, likes the implication of knowing Hannibal had  _let him_  even though it was done in a visible spot. After all, Hannibal had encouraged him to bite again and to bite harder even. The fucking hedonist.

(He blatantly ignores the comment about him studying and being overly familiar with sexual sadists. He's not one of  _those_ men.)

"Right. We mustn't let the Chesapeake Ripper be reckless," Will murmurs, cynicism easily heard despite the hushed tone.

He breathes deeply. Hannibal smells of expensive and complex aftershave or cologne. Will doesn't even attempt to figure out how to describe it. In the morning, he hadn't shaved. He'd simply rolled on antiperspirant and called himself fit for travel.

"You smell nice," Will points out suddenly, lifting his forehead off of Hannibal's shoulder and raising his mouth to Hannibal's ear. "For a man, I mean." The amendment holds just the barest trace of embarrassment, but he hadn't exactly intended to voice his observation.

Perhaps to make up for his comment, Will is going to push. Tit for tat. He can't leave himself exposed. It's time to see if he can surprise Hannibal. (This is now a repeating pattern, an emerging design.) He pushes his fingers in-between Hannibal's own and combs up, stroking his fingers up and then back down.

"You want your fingers inside me, don't you?" Voice low, teasing.

This is the most sexual he's been, at least vocally, and the fucking insinuation sort of makes Will feel ill, hotter and uncomfortable. He's glad his coat is on his lap because Will has the horrible realization that he's likely going to get aroused by this.

* * *

Were Hannibal perhaps a lesser man, Will's comment on the Ripper would have earned him a reprimand of some sort. To Will's fortune, they are unfortunately on a flight that will be ready to take off shortly, and a physical reprimand is out of the question. It doesn't stop him from considering it. For a moment he considers grabbing the back of Will's neck and squeezing, considers doing the same to Will's throat in an effort to keep him silent.

While it is next to impossible that anyone on the flight can hear them now, it still warrants a warning.

"Certain phrases catch attention even when one is attempting to remain quiet, Will. Do not forget that." His tone tight in displeasure.

Will is not the only man currently irritated and somewhat tense. The mark had not been something Hannibal had counted on and he intends to cover it as soon as he can.

Hannibal turns away then, casually studying the others in first class. The seats are not all filled and take-off should have been five minutes ago so it's unlikely there will be a plethora of people on the flight. There is a gentleman a row to their left with a younger woman by his side. Both are engrossed in conversation that Hannibal has no desire to eavesdrop on. Lifting his glass of champagne for another sip, Hannibal catches sight of at least five people through the rest of the rows behind them. There is no one in their immediate area that he can see, but the businessman and his assistant are within line of sight. Hannibal considers them.

His focus is not on Will for those few seconds. Yet when he speaks, it very quickly refocuses on him. Hannibal stills, for hearing Will claim that he smells  _good_  is enough to catch Hannibal's attention and incredulity.

Will hastens to cover for his slip but Hannibal merely regards him, noting the way Will leans against his shoulder and the sudden tightness to the grip he has on Hannibal's hand.

Not eight hours ago Will Graham had shuddered his way through kissing, through an orgasm, and had withdrawn in shame. True he'd curled close the night before and Hannibal had needed to extract himself that morning from the tangle of Will's limbs, but aside from his display of power on the road, Will has not been blatant in whatever attraction he might have. Given how embarrassed he looks, Hannibal doubts he'd meant to say a thing.

Yet before he can decide if he  _wants_  to soothe Will's embarrassment (though he is leaning toward  _yes_  as Will  _had_  taken his hand, mark aside, and Hannibal is not a particularly petty man at the moment), Will's fingers straighten and slide up against his own, almost a courtship in and of itself. It draws Hannibal's gaze, calm yet curious, but when Will leans in to murmur into his ear, Hannibal goes still.

_‘You want your fingers inside me, don't you?’_

That is not what he'd been expecting Will to say. He looks at Will sharply with a flicker of true surprise that is masked almost immediately by an expression that can only be described as thoughtful. Lips pursing, he regards his companion for only a moment before leaning in enough to reply.

"Again, perhaps not an appropriate topic for a plane, nor is this a topic I would have expected from you."

Hannibal allows that statement to hang only for a moment before he curls his fingers through Will's own and holds his hand more securely. Then he lowers his own voice just a little, ensuring their neighbors cannot hear.

"Though it appears my thoughts on the topic matter little when  _you_  desire it so much. Is that something you want, Will? To be felt so intimately? Most men would ask for a hand elsewhere, or a mouth, though you already secured that last night, I suppose."

* * *

Will could let himself be paranoid. He's been taught to observe and look for threats. He knows that everyone possesses darker sides, that anyone could be a killer (all it took to catch Hobbs was a lack of an address...). But right now he doesn't give a shit about the other passengers on the flight. His words have been whispered; he's been careful. (Of course, it's not smart to mention the Ripper, but Will's decisions as of late couldn't be considered intelligent; this is simply par for the course.)

There's a freedom in leaving one's old self behind, in shedding the usual concerns that come with caring about what others think and trying to live up to society's standards. Will's living for himself now and he'll be as reckless and self-indulgent as Hannibal will allow. Will is trusting that the doctor has a place for them - a plan - and that a future is waiting for them to arrive at it. Together they will fill out the picture, brushstrokes spreading vibrant colors across the page, a creation in the making and when the time is right, Will is going to rip it to shreds.

(Hannibal will be ruined. Stained.)

It takes one slip to urge Will forward. After he comments on Hannibal smelling good, only a few quickening beats of his heart occur before he decides on attempting to ruffle Hannibal. He chooses to be licentious, whispering on Hannibal's desire to... use his fingers inside. It's overly blatant, far bolder than Will has been save for shoving Hannibal to his knees and all but forcing the doctor to suck him off.

This has started from nothing. No prompting, not really, just Will bringing up the mark and letting his mind wander. (Had Hannibal telling him  _no_ spurred him on? Perhaps.)

A glint of surprise flashes on Hannibal's face, but, naturally, it's smoothed over relatively quick. Not an appropriate time and not expected is what he's told. (Hannibal's not wrong.) Will's hand is stilled by Hannibal's grip tightening. He resists initially, testing Hannibal's strength before conceding to it. His face warms at Hannibal's words...

_‘Is that something you want, Will? To be felt so intimately? Most men would ask…’_

Will doesn't care for Hannibal's last statement. He's not most men; Hannibal should know this. These are extenuating circumstances and while Will may have not have consciously thought about Hannibal in a sexual manner, the content of certain dreams have certainly been...

Will lightly brushes his fingertips against Hannibal's knuckles. He can distantly hear the flight attendants going over the safety spiel, but he pays no attention to it. (He's not a safe man either.) Will licks at Hannibal's ear, from the lobe to the pinna. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, half hard now.

"I want to be touched by you," Will answers, whispering into Hannibal's ear. "Want to burn up in you...  _Again_."

The 'again' is somewhat a barb, referring back to the unchecked encephalitis.

"Talk to me... Like you did in the shower," Will suddenly demands.

(Why does he want to experience that sick twist of embarrassment again?)

* * *

This is dangerous, but not solely for the reasons Will might expect. The jacket over Will's lap is a blessing because Hannibal can already smell the twist of heat upon the air, the gathering of warmth and chemicals that are the heady scent of arousal. Yet beyond merely being somewhat sexual in a public area, the danger lies in the fact that this is not easily predictable.

Two days ago, Hannibal had been ready to run away with this man, blind and euphoric on being seen and understood. Accepted. Two days ago Hannibal calmly set aside heavier desires as he always had, for he cared little in what way he had Will Graham provided he'd  _had_  him. Two days ago he dwelled on possibilities for life anew, on showing Will everything, on the comfort of being  _known_. Two days ago sex had been little more than a hidden desire, important only in the sense that Hannibal hadn't been able to stop his desire for this man despite months of trying.

Then Will changed it all. He’d twisted the knife, shoved Hannibal to his knees, and had immolated the foundation beneath their feet. Now, two days later, they burn and they fall, and neither of them truly know what awaits them when they land.

This is dangerous because it is unpredictable.

Last night Will had shoved him to his knees, allowed Alana to hear, and courted disaster by pressing his lips to cold, hard danger by way of the gun. He'd then withdrawn heavily, hardly saying a word until the elevator, and what had followed in the shower is something Hannibal is still attempting to make sense of. Will's need, his submission, his humiliation, his rage and the sharp bite of teeth followed by brutal, emotional honesty. They'd kissed, Will had shuddered apart and spent himself again, and once again recoiled and retreated.

Yet this morning Hannibal had woken up with Will wrapped around him, curled close, his expression lax with sleep and comfort.

He has never been able to predict Will Graham.

Only now is he realizing what a liability this is when his own emotions are still raw and bitter. So this show of Will's recklessness, this touch to his hand and the way Will blatantly leans in and licks up his ear is enough to get Hannibal drawing away.

He doesn't move too far, but merely checks that no one has seen before looking back at Will. Slowly, though reluctant, he does lean back in to catch the low cast of Will's voice. This, this  _right_  here, is the reason Hannibal should decline. Will is spiraling or simply reckless. He's not a fool; he knows what Will is asking of him, and the logical response would be a firm 'no'.

Yet despite that he is intrigued. Part of it is the idea of seeing Will wrapped so tightly around his own pleasure and desperation again (there are very few options for allowing oneself pleasure in a plane) but part of it is because this is yet another side of Will being bared to him. Another side worthy of study. Is it safe to ride this wave unchecked? No.

That is what makes it interesting.

"The shower...  _before_  you bit me, you mean," he murmurs back, idly stroking his thumb along the back of Will's knuckles, attention without being blatant.

"I don't believe you ever answered my questions then. Would you do so now? I dislike repeating myself. Or perhaps that  _is_  what you wish, to be denied? I wonder, Will. Were I to deny your request, how many more times would you ask me? Would you beg? You clearly enjoy the thought. I can smell it on you."

Hannibal leans in just a little more, giving Will's hand another squeeze.

"Would you be capable of keeping your voice down? Beg me quietly? You weren't able to last night."

* * *

Will Graham had fucked Margot Verger - a lesbian. He knew she wasn't 'into' it. Wasn't attracted to him. She went through the motions, sure. She hadn't been bad in bed by any means, but he'd felt her disinterest, her obvious disconnection both to him and to the activity. If Will was a better man, he wouldn't have even considered it. If he was a good man he would have stopped after empathizing with her, but he had been feeling low and desperate enough to do something despicable. (Had he ever been that good/better man anyway?)

But with Hannibal there exists an undeniable connection between them. There's blatant interest. Complete focus. Hannibal's undivided attention. It's powerful and far too tempting for Will to not scramble after. He's sampled that interest. He's skimmed across the surface while sitting in Hannibal Lecter's office, but now that they've  _touched_? Now that he knows how Hannibal's mouth feels, both on his dick and against his lips? He's heard Hannibal's voice take on slightly different pitches, identified a seductive quality to it. He's been the center of Hannibal's universe, awash and overwhelmed in new sensations. It's been less than twenty-four hours that they've shifted into this uncertain companionship, but Will is a man with a fledgling addiction.

(Is this what it feels like to be loved?)

It's such a simple gesture - Hannibal's thumb sliding across his knuckles - but it's attention and Will exhales shakily because of it. Hannibal had asked him many questions in the shower, a barrage of them mostly seeking clarification that had him snapping and biting back like an animal.

But there remains a sick fascination with the uncomfortable way his stomach tied itself into knots at Hannibal's observations. How could the burn of humiliation, the edges of embarrassment mix and contribute to arousal? What was so alluring about Hannibal's scrutiny? Will doesn't know, but he fucking likes it and he wants another hit.

Hannibal may be talking about denying him, but as he continues and throws out his questions, Will notices the familiar curl of conflicting arousal growing within him. He swallows. He licks his lips. He shifts in his seat. It's delicious. It's confusing. But it's Hannibal.

_'Would you beg? You clearly enjoy the thought. I can smell it on you…’_

Even now there's a part of him that feels too proud, incredulous even that he'd ever _want_ to do such a thing, but that part is easily overshadowed. Because Will is quickly learning he'd do a great many things as long as Hannibal remained focused on him. Another squeeze to his hand and Will shivers. It's such a subtle, small touch, but it's  _something_. He doesn't know if he'll be able to keep his voice down, but he wants this.

"Please. I'll try," he murmurs, voice quiet and tight. Will nestles his head in close, his mouth hovering by Hannibal's ear. "Please, Hannibal, don't stop."

* * *

Dangerous indeed.

Hannibal watches heat sliding through the man beside him. It's subtle, but there is color to his cheeks, and the way his pupils begin to blow is as alluring as it is dangerous.

As he watches, Will's throat shifts upon a swallow, his tongue snakes out to wet his lips, and he squirms ever so slightly in his seat. Perhaps were Hannibal blatant enough to check, he'd find that Will isn't yet fully hard, but he can scent his arousal and one glance is all it takes to prove that his mind is at least engaged. He's given Will a scrap, a mere taste of what he thinks he wants, and Will has reacted favorably. It doesn't make this idea any less reckless but as Hannibal gazes down at the thin rings of blue in Will's eyes and feels his shiver as Hannibal squeezes his hand, he suspects that perhaps recklessness might be their new normal for the next few weeks. Neither of them are truly sane at the moment.

In fact Hannibal feels decidedly less sane when Will's voice softens - on his command, perhaps? The thought is heady - and not only agrees to try but  _asks_. Will is not a man to  _ask_  for anything. He hints and assumes in the same way Hannibal tends to. That Will asks once is shocking. That he asks twice is begging.

Hannibal closes his eyes against a rather intense spike of reckless desire. If Will's fixation upon him is an addiction, for Hannibal, it is practically religion.

This is confirmation of his suspicions though. Along with Will's flare of sadism - evidenced by the lurid mark upon his throat and the barely-scabbed one upon his clavicle - Will seems to enjoy the idea of being humiliated. Perhaps not infinitely, or too severely; Hannibal wears a mark for a reason after all. Yet the flare of heat in Will's eyes and the scent of arousal at no more than a few words coupled with his actions with the gun the evening before all speak to a very specific set of desires.

However, as with anything between them, this has the capacity for danger. Hannibal has few qualms in carefully poking and prodding, in whispering soft observations into Will's ear and watching the reactions. The danger lies in allowing his bitterness to creep in. Perhaps in a way, that had been why Will had lashed out the night before. It had ceased being observations and had become accusations. Hannibal makes an idle mental note to watch that.

"I won't, provided you keep your voice low," he says.

With Will so close to his ear, Hannibal casts a glance at their positioning and then leans ever so slightly into Will's space, making it easier for Will to rest his head upon his shoulder. He'd pull him in closer but they'll be taking off soon. Like this, there is no denying that they look like a couple, and Hannibal finds himself curious whether or not that will play into Will's desire.

"You are a unique man, Will. The capacity for such violence, for a domination you've likely attempted to pretend doesn't exist, yet in the same breath, a desire to be achingly vulnerable. Yet given your response last night, I can only assume that this is a recent development. Have you enjoyed being humiliated before, Will?" Hannibal asks, his tone casual, almost as if merely curious, but he continues to gently stroke his thumb over the back of Will's knuckles. It's the only contact he directly engages in.

"Humiliation and vulnerability go hand-in-hand. To expose yourself so freely to the scrutiny of another."

“Though I must say," he adds, and his tone softens ever so slightly. "You do look... quite stunning when you're desperate. Your breathing deepens, your face flushes, and your pupils nearly eclipse your irises. Normally reactions of being touched sexually, yet I've not touched you and you look quite wanting already."

* * *

Hannibal was right: this wasn't an appropriate place to be doing anything like this - other passengers around, flight attendants walking past, take off soon - but Will knows he's not going to stop. He can't stop. He won't be responsible and logical about this. He can't be. Not now. Not when Hannibal Lecter is permanently entered into the equation. (No life could remain unchanged once the good doctor sought to meddle.)

He wants that singular attention on himself, that intense focus, a spotlight shining only on him. Will's never been truly indulgent, he's never been wholly selfish. Not like this. But a habit is forming. It's been less than a day and already Will can't think of _not_ having more, of _not_ pushing further.

(This  _is_  an addiction.) It's going to destroy his life, or whatever scraps he has left of it, because Hannibal has already changed him. Wrecked him. There is no going back. Nothing can be gathered up or pieced back together. The past is shattered, like the teacup, and he's already bled for Hannibal, by a gunshot wound courtesy of Jack. He may bleed again for who knows how far they will travel down this twisted rabbit hole.

He's invited Hannibal to bite him, to mark him, so yes he's willing to bleed for the doctor, as long as the context is right. But if he is to be destroyed again, Hannibal will fall with him this time. (Will would rather push him, but if he must, he will take the plunge too.)

In asking - in begging - he's inviting Hannibal to play, to meddle. (He's courting danger like a fool, reaching out--)

He does rest his head on Hannibal's shoulder - an invitation that Will won't decline. He's aware how they look, two men holding hands and leaning into each other, a head nestled in close. It looks like affection, like love, but that's a facade. Hannibal has shown him affection before, soft touches, wrapping a blanket around him, bandaging his hand, but the softness was edged.

There is nothing soft about Hannibal that isn't wrapped in some lie. There is no romance. Whatever mockery of love Hannibal feels toward him, it's certainly a mutation - a change in the normal sequence. But Will will manipulate that mutation either way. And in the meantime, he will enjoy whatever benefits he can.

This flirtation will continue if Will can keep himself in check. He needs to be quiet, to not attract unwanted attention. (But oh, it's amusing to think of getting them in trouble... Hannibal would hate it.)

He'll behave, though. Listening to the words, however, is not easy. It's distinctly uncomfortable, for Will doesn't like to glimpse too deep inside of him, for what's growing and taking root is something he's not proud of. Because yes, there's an aspect that rejoices in the violence, in the darkness, and in power. He'd delighted in taking, in Hannibal down on his knees and on being forceful. He'd delighted in biting and bringing forth blood.

But yes, then there's  _this_. This angle, this side of him that's emerging and bending to Hannibal. It's a psychological submission, this desperation for attention, for Hannibal to stroke him with words that evoke particular reactions. Is it vulnerability? Will doesn't know. Hannibal states that it is, that humiliation and vulnerability go together (conjoined?).

Will isn't going to argue against it. The touch to his hand is barely anything, but still, it's a hint of contact and he thirsts for it, craving any small stimulus. As Hannibal's honeyed voice continues talking, describing how wanton he looks without anything deliberately sexual happening, Will has to bite down on his lip to hold back whatever pathetic sound wants to come out.

"It's new... This is all new," Will eventually admits, his hushed tone possessing a bit of a waver. "And I know it's messed up, I shouldn't like this, I shouldn't let you do this--"

Will exhales slowly, gripping Hannibal's hand hard as if trying to calm himself down. He takes in a deeper breath but in doing so, he also smells Hannibal.

"Don't know if I want to be like this."

Self-doubt creeps along on his veins. He remembers that Hannibal hadn't even been aroused while talking like this to him in the shower. What if he uses this against him in some form?

* * *

Movement out of the corner of his eye draws Hannibal's attention. The businessman and his assistant have parted in order to pull on their seat belts (he and Will are already wearing theirs). For a moment the man glances in their direction and Hannibal merely keeps his gaze on Will. He knows how they appear. Will's head is nestled gently against his shoulder, their hands clasped, and Will's jacket is draped comfortably over his lap. They look like a couple, their posture clearly stating familiarity and affection even as they hone their words like blades. To anyone on the outside looking in, they're content.

Hannibal merely looks intent upon his partner and Will's eyes are half-closed, his hair a little wild after his evening at the hotel. He looks like he's gone without rest for a while. From the corner of his eye, Hannibal watches the man simply turn back around, disinterested at the display.

There is a mild thrill inherent in this, Hannibal must admit, though putting faith in Will's ability to remain silent and subtle is a recipe for disaster. While Will Graham is clearly capable of deception, he is also more than capable of recklessness. His hope that Will plans on maintaining control the way he had while engrossed in his earlier deception is likely misplaced.

Will can be controlled. Hannibal merely suspects he has no desire to be right now. No, this is lashing out and recklessness. Will's actions are not the actions of a sane man. They are the actions of a man firing in all directions. Careless.

Hannibal does what he can to keep Will reined in, measuring his own breathing carefully to give Will something to match his to.

While this is dangerous, there are precautions Hannibal can and will take. He intends to monitor Will closely, for this is not a situation Will can merely get up and withdraw from like he had last night in the shower. Again Hannibal is reminded of how ridiculous an idea this is, but his resolve again shakes at the sight of Will biting down on his lip. He makes no true sound, but Hannibal can hear a muffled one deep in Will's throat.

Perhaps this is ridiculous but it is also power. Hannibal is quiet, clearly waiting for Will to respond. He gives no indication that he's waiting for that save a small sound of acknowledgment when Will finally replies.

He is not surprised that this is a new development. He's pleased. Yet another impact he has likely made upon this man's life. Another scar, another stain. Will is not the only one who enjoys the thought of  _changing_  the other. And he has. While Will's betrayal had come as a surprise, it doesn't negate the fact that he is still here, still bending, still changing, still folding. Origami under Hannibal's careful fingers. Bending and folding a blank slate to make it three dimensional. To make it stand on its own. To make it  _more_. The only difference is that Hannibal has been striving to make Will better. Yin and yang even in this, so it would seem.

The grip to his hand is strong but Hannibal merely holds it, squeezing back just enough to remind Will that he is just as strong - perhaps stronger. Squeezing just enough to ground Will back in the moment.

And though he can hear the edge to Will's voice, it isn't until he catches a small inkling of doubt that he decides to perhaps play his cards a little closer to his chest this time around. Hannibal looks at Will again, at the edge of distress.

"Who is to say you shouldn't like this, Will? That you shouldn't desire this of me? What makes this any less acceptable than what you made me do for you last night?" Hannibal asks quietly, directing Will's attention back to his sadism the night before.

"Did you not enjoy seeing me like that? Did you take pleasure in forcing inelegance? Humiliation. There is an honesty in humiliation, Will. Not the words. Your emotions. Facing what I point out to you, there is no hiding from yourself." Hannibal shifts just enough to brush his lips over Will's forehead. It's barely a touch, and it's not a kiss, but it's close.

"For instance, were I to point out that you smell very strongly of arousal despite achieving orgasm twice last night, and despite your protestations that you have never been attracted to a man before... there is no disguising this quick twist in your chest as anything but the truth."

* * *

The plane jolts into movement, working its way to the runway. Will's other hand grips the wine glass, trying to focus on the smooth texture, the feel of the large comfy chair he's seated in, the restriction of the seatbelt - anything other than the fact that he's sporting an erection and breathing quicker, that he's probably in over his head. (Even  _he_  should know better; he shouldn't be inciting this, asking for this, giving Hannibal ammunition and then handing him the gun too.) He's never been this reckless before. What is it about Hannibal Lecter that encourages this behavior, that excites him so?

Because Will  _is_  excited, his breathing quick and shallow, body warm, a flush on his cheeks and his pants uncomfortably tight in the crotch area. The coat over his lap disguises the growing hardness and Hannibal leans in just right, shielding Will's face from the view of others. But despite the physical manifestation of symptoms, this isn't just physical, isn't just sexual (it would be easier to perhaps accept it if it was). Hannibal was right - nothing sexual, overtly or otherwise - has been done to him to put him into this state. This is a psychological game, his mind being caressed with the barest of teases and Will is strung out already.

His hand is grasped tightly in return, he can feel his own sweating, moisture collecting between the press of their skin. Will can't be bothered to be overly embarrassed by it. By now he's used to his predilection toward sweating. In this instance, it's just another side effect.

Was it his intention to seek affirmation? To hope for reassurance from Hannibal in this? His voiced unease seems to have sent that message for Hannibal reframes the current situation for him to consider. Yes, Will had forced Hannibal into a position of inelegance - of humiliation - when he'd forced him to his knees and let Alana listen to the obvious sounds of a blowjob. Will had found it riveting, had found it far too engrossing, but it seems easier to accept if he's on the giving end compared to receiving...

_‘There is an honesty in humiliation, Will. Not the words. Your emotions. Facing what I point out to you, there is no hiding from yourself.’_

(He should hide, he should be worried, for what could Hannibal unearth? Those meddling fingers, that sharp tongue - it's a dangerous combination...)

Lips graze his forehead and he can't help but think of how thoroughly Hannibal had kissed him the night before. Will had felt like he was drowning, gasping for air, floundering, but he hadn't pulled away.

He won't pull away now either. The pull of Hannibal is too strong and maybe this is exactly where he wants to be.

Him smelling aroused is somehow worse than a visual or tactile confirmation. It's more primal, but this perhaps fits Hannibal to a tee. Will curses under his breath, fidgeting in his seat, fighting against blatant arousal and what he wants to ask for. 

He gives in.

“Please... I need... Will you kiss me again - on the mouth?"

Best to clarify. Like him, his request is unrefined.

* * *

Though neither of them clearly know what it is they're doing - Will operating on recklessness and Hannibal on impulse - Hannibal cannot deny that the sensory input in this moment is exquisite. While there is temptation inherent in the scent of Will's arousal, it's slightly muted by his jacket and the knowledge that no matter how far this goes, there's nothing Will can do.

It's enough to send a stirring of pleasure through him, the knowledge that Will is caught in this moment voluntarily. The knowledge that he  _wants_  to be left in his discomfort, his pants too tight, his muscles aching with restlessness and the need to find some sort of release. Sexual humiliation may be gaining sexual arousal from the words or the act, but humiliation goes far beyond that. It's far more psychological than physical, and as heat settles darkly upon Will's face, Hannibal admires the link Will's mind has to the rest of his body.

While Hannibal normally derives satisfaction - non-sexual - at the sight of others in pain, this is different. People are merely more interesting when they're in distress. There's never been a sexual component to it until now.

Now, as he looks at the way Will squirms, at the deep flush to his face, and the clear discomfort, he cannot deny his own desire to keep him there, to watch him struggle.  _This_  is sexual, and while Hannibal finds himself mildly surprised at his own reaction, that surprise fades shortly. This  _is_  Will Graham. Will has always been his exception.

Under them, the plane begins to move, low vibrations of the engines enough to mask the sound of Will's soft breaths, which come a little quicker, a little shallower as he squeezes Hannibal's hand. His palm is slightly damp yet Hannibal finds he doesn't mind. He's far more taken with the way Will's pupils are blown wide and the way the flush to his face has already crept down his neck. He looks aroused, and Hannibal knows it would be clear to anyone looking at the moment, which is why he makes a point to carefully shift enough to eclipse Will from view.

And as his own words finally make an impact - enough for Will to curse softly from where he has his face half-hidden against Hannibal's shoulder - he watches with silent satisfaction as a new struggle seems to settle in.

It takes Will time to get his request out, and for a moment Hannibal considers denying it simply because he can. He wonders what Will would do were he to deny it. Yet one glance - at the desperation on Will's face, and at the memory of Will lashing out the night before - is enough to ease that curiosity. Hannibal's sense catches up with him just enough to remind him why this is both reckless and intriguing. Thoughtful in the face of Will's request, Hannibal considers him for a few moments in silence, and then reaches up with his free hand to gently touch Will's jaw.

"Yes," he says simply, sliding his hand up to cup Will's jaw enough that he can curl his fingers through Will's hair at the nape of his neck. "Seeing as you asked so politely."

The request might be unrefined, but hearing that soft  _please_  is enough to thrill him. Aware that the other passengers are occupied with settling in and that the flight attendants are busy readying for take-off themselves, Hannibal moves Will's jaw up enough to brush their lips together. It's hardly more than a touch, a taste, and again he considers simply leaving Will with that before dismissing the idea. Given how striking Will is like this, his expression radiating desire as much as his scent, Hannibal rather  _wants_  to kiss him. So he tilts his head just enough to kiss him properly, though as he had in the shower he keeps it chaste for the first while.

This time his mind isn't clouded by arousal the way it had been before (though he is by no means unaffected by Will's soft requests and distress) so he's able to take his time. He silently drinks in the feeling of Will's lips, still somewhat rough under his own, his stubble an unfamiliar but pleasant scratch against Hannibal's chin. Each kiss is languid and controlled, the only variance being when Hannibal opts to gently suck at Will's lower lip before kissing him again.

When he finally parts his lips and pushes Will to do the same, he can  _feel_  the trembling under his hand and it pushes him to deepen the kiss. He allows himself one moment to indulge, to kiss deeper, to claim Will's lips in a kiss that borders on too much, on allowing himself to satisfy his own wants. But before it can draw any attention from the other passengers, he eases it back enough to taste this man gently, then draws back enough to break the kiss. His own breathing is a little deeper, though silent, and Hannibal gently strokes his thumb over Will's cheek, merely waiting. He's finding he enjoys Will  _asking_.

* * *

Will knows that Hannibal hadn't been expecting any sexual or physical intimacy - at least, not for some time. He'd probably hoped, but Hannibal was the type that feasted on the mind. Hannibal would have been content to gaze upon Will and have long obscure conversations about God and morality as they regarded each other on an intellectual level. Hannibal would have drank up the sight and delighted in the experience of not having to hide, of being  _seen_ (for all their conversations, Hannibal still hasn't admitted anything). It would have been safer. Familiar for both of them, too.

Instead, they have  _this_. It's volatile and barely explored. It's reckless and unwise. Will has set them on this path, apparently introduced the concept of humiliation and injected it into their dynamic. Will's always felt uncomfortable in his skin, largely for his inability to fit in and operate on an approved wavelength to the rest of society. His empathy, his cocktail of personality issues has made socializing largely difficult, but he's never courted embarrassment before - if anything, he's staunchly avoided possibly distressing situations.

(If Will were to  _really_ look within himself, he'd perhaps discover that he wants to be worthy of Hannibal's appraisal, his attention, of his scrutiny. They're intimately close like this, Hannibal observing every little flicker of emotion, every sharp inhale, every shift. It's terrifying. It's invigorating.)

There is a possibility of him being denied. Hannibal could say no and not even Will knows how he would react to that outcome. Would he beg? Or would he pull away and pull down the curtains on this particular scene?

He doesn't have to find out, for it seems like 'please' is the magic word and Hannibal will permit his request. The word 'yes' goes straight to his dick. Will's eyelids flutter, blinking quickly as if to try and psych himself up for the impending assault.

But it's not an assault, no (why did he think it would be?). Hannibal simply lifts a hand to his face, stroking backward while fingers grasp hair at the back of his head. Uncertain, Will lets Hannibal guide his head up _._ There is an ache to be kissed, a longing in this agonizing moment, during the few seconds that has him holding his breath as he  _waits._

(He feels more naked now than in the shower. He's  _asked_ for this, shown Hannibal his cards, his yearning.)

The barest of touches  _does_ come, a brush of Hannibal's lips to his own and Will closes his eyes. For a second after Hannibal pushes away, Will is left stranded. His eyes snap open. Was that it? Is Hannibal taunting him?

No. He's kissed again. And again. The pace is unhurried, like in the shower, Hannibal leading and Will only able to do his best to follow. His chest feels tight, his heart racing far too quickly as he squeezes Hannibal's hand for purchase. He's tasted, bottom lip sucked, their mouths learning and each of Hannibal's movements are confident and controlled. It's far too arousing to reflect that Hannibal is damn good kisser and that he is dictating this all. Will Graham is not usually a passive man, but in this, he takes a back seat.

Sounds threaten to come up and Hannibal kisses them back down, covering Will's mouth when necessary.

When the kiss does finally come to an end, Will's lips are wet and parted as he takes a deep breath in. And then another. He regards Hannibal carefully, and he can tell that the man isn't as unaffected as he may be trying for.

"Against your better judgement, you love me," Will states, eyes narrowing, just daring Hannibal to try and refute his claim.

* * *

There's something very silent but very visceral in the way Will's eyes snap open after that first tease of a kiss. For a moment Will looks alarmed that that is all he will receive, and Hannibal decides the reaction is fair. Neither of them are men to honestly ask. Hannibal asks without meaning it by times, his 'please's little more than the soft sound made to a dog to reward for good behavior. Will has a right to his initial displeasure that a true request would have netted him only a vague return. Yet as Hannibal gives in and allows himself the indulgence, Will is perhaps more obvious than he believes he is.

There is more to this than Will's humiliation, than the embarrassment of asking. Perhaps he believes that's all it is. Perhaps the alluring scent of arousal between them is one he believes stems from the emotional masochism of this moment.

Yet as Hannibal tastes him, tastes the faint remnants of mint from Will brushing his teeth earlier that morning, he is far more aware of more than Will believes he is letting on. Perhaps the both of them are struggling in this. This... lack of foundation. Yet in this moment, despite the swirling chaos amidst Hannibal's mind, despite the wreck that is the foundation he'd previously stood upon, he can see that Will doesn't just desire this. He needs this. He needs the attention.

Something slots into place then, a puzzle piece that Hannibal hadn't been aware he'd been missing. Perhaps Will had betrayed him, but there is more to this complication in their relationship than that.

As he carefully kisses Will and takes in every little twitch and shiver, swallows down every sound Will can begin to make, he's very aware of the way Will melts under his touch. He'd been anticipating something rougher, tense in anticipation (and oh, Hannibal had seen the anticipation in Will's eyes, written across his face, cheeks flushed and expression just shy of pleading). Perhaps a need to be treated without care. Perhaps a need to be manhandled. Hannibal would have thought that were it not for the way Will responds to being kissed softly.

Will Graham craves attention, craves affection, but doesn't expect it.

The realization almost makes Hannibal draw back then, for there is a visceral twist of bitterness in his chest that makes him wish to petulantly deny Will his need. Will hardly  _deserves_  getting what he craves after his deception. While Hannibal can understand Will's reasoning - revenge for a betrayal in turn he hadn't realized that Hannibal had already apologized for - it doesn't soften the blow.

Yet as he draws back from one of the kisses and catches the look on Will's face - cheeks flushed, glasses slightly askew, lips wet and swollen, eyes closed in trust - Hannibal's bitterness eases. It's reluctant to leave, but he is perhaps softer in the kiss he presses to Will's lips next as if to make up for the desire.

He has no idea where they stand, or what this realization changes, if anything. All he knows is that when he finally breaks the kiss and watches Will slowly pull himself back together, his lips fetchingly red and his pupils pleasantly blown, Will's slightly breathless statement draws a small, slightly wry smile from Hannibal's lips. With his guard down, with the scent of Will's arousal so thick on the air, and the dual needs to destroy this dangerous creature and care for him in equal measure, Will's claim tastes bitter on his tongue.

"A complication I find  _endlessly_  inconvenient," he says, without direct confirmation, but it's as straight an answer as Hannibal ever gives. "My life would have undoubtedly been far easier had I not been fond of you."

The  _had I been able to kill you_  goes unsaid.

Hannibal strokes his thumb carefully over Will's cheek again, looking at him only for a moment before he begins to draw back. They will be lifting into the air soon and Will hasn't asked for anything else. Hannibal has no desire to reward him needlessly.

* * *

Will had asked, used his manners and all with tacking on a 'please' and he'd been obliged. It had been another slow, teasing interaction, one in which had left him wanting, but at least Will had kept himself mostly in check.

It may have ended for now, but he's not done with kissing Hannibal, no. Will knows there will be more lip locking in their future and he'll undoubtedly ask again (or  _take_ , but each course of action has their own implications, their own judgments.) Yes, last night he'd admitted being unsure about this new turn to their relationship - that he'd never been sexually interested or active with another male, but as each minute passes next to nothing Hannibal's side, Will thinks he cares less and less about that.

He's changed. Hannibal's changed. What's broken stays broken and what's behind them stays behind (the dead stay dead no matter who may come to visit him while fishing in his mind). Nothing could or would be the same again for them. This is his mid-life crisis, brought on early courtesy of Hannibal Lecter. Chasing after Hannibal's touch and attention... It's not exactly necessary for his plan, but it's what he wants, what he craves, and for once in Will's life, he is going to be selfish. Yes, he'll grab. Snatch. Take. He'll reach out. He'll ask. He'll beg. Killing had changed the way he thought and Hannibal has changed the way he feels.

So, he asserted his claim, mentioned the unmentionable - love. The concept of love itself and of being a fool in love, is likely considered to be paltry to be Hannibal, but Will knows. He had his very own fool next to him.

Will's not given a yes or a no, but what he's told  _is_  a confirmation. They both know it's true, though. It must be love (yes, an inconvenient complication). There's only one reason Hannibal would allow himself to defy his better logic to not end him when he had began to suspect Hannibal was the Ripper. And now to attempt to trust Will again in the face of his admitted plan with Jack.

He could rub it in Hannibal's face - a part of him would delight in it - but honesty is chosen instead.

"Likewise," Will responds softly. His life would have been  _much less_  in many different areas if not for Hannibal's insistent presence. "Having caught your eye and holding your gaze as I have... It's been life-altering. Both dangerous and gratifying."

But he's being too honest (he shouldn't admit the latter); Will knows he's not finished and as his mouth opens, he flinches slightly, anguished. He grips Hannibal's hand tightly, storm colored eyes darting away.

"I don't know what's to come, where we go from here... I'm sure we'll both be inconvenienced by each other many times over." He wants to rush through these next words, but despite the urge, Will speaks hesitantly, as if he can't believe that he's still sharing. "You're already under my skin, in my bones, carving up my skull. You've taking up residence in my dreams, plague my nightmares... I don't particularly want you to be anywhere else, but maybe I don't have a choice in the matter."

He doesn't say heart, but he thinks it's pretty evident.

* * *

As the saying goes, there is a thin line between love and hate. Perhaps this isn't true for all cases, but it is clear that the opposite of love isn't hate. It's indifference. Indifference is the opposite of both, for to be truly indifferent denies the passion behind the other two states of being. To hate, there needs to be a  _reason_  to hate, just as there needs to be a reason to love. It slides under the skin like a hypodermic, it clings to the edges and wrinkles, thick and cloying and all-encompassing. The only difference is the underlying feeling. One tends to be good, the other tends to be bad, yet both are interchangeable depending on the person.

In that moment, with Will looking at him, his eyes hooded, his face flushed, Hannibal wishes he could attain indifference.

His sentiment is inconvenient, and his hurt and anger only mean he had expectations to destroy to begin with. That he has let this man in so far, that he had shared his life, opened up in a way he'd known as dangerous and yet had done it anyway... he wishes he could hate Will Graham. But more than that, he wishes he could remove his care and his anger like skillful removal of necrotic tissue. Surely love and hate do about as much good were they are concerned. Yet despite his bitterness, there is still that twinge of hope - the fanciful belief that Will is here because he wishes to be, because he'd made his choice. Oh, Hannibal is well aware that life doesn't work like that.

Will has betrayed him once. It's entirely possible this is another deception, yet even more likely that when compared to a life living at Jack's heel, barking and begging to be used like a psychopathic dowsing rod, Will's decision had hinged on one simple realization: he wanted to chase the feeling of being desired instead of being  _used_. This is likely a reckless act, Will lashing out, a dog deciding to chase a dangerous yet intriguing scent instead of allowing its master to command it back.

Only time will tell whether or not Will is going to be able to handle this change. Either he will thrive at Hannibal's side and awaken more of his darkness than he assumed, or he will crash and burn gloriously, panic, and force Hannibal to make a difficult choice. Yet he is a fool in love (and a fool in hate) and he has no indifference to shove in Will's face. He has only his sentiment and a visceral desire to keep Will by his side. Possession, obsession, romance, is there any difference with them?

Even so, despite Hannibal's thoughts, he is not expecting Will to suddenly speak up. His voice is so soft that Hannibal needs to half-glance back at him in order to hear it, and he falls silent at the sound of his word. It's one word at first, just one, but the implications steal the bitterness from him like a blanket being ripped away in the early morning.

Hannibal stills and glances at Will in silence, simply watching, almost wary, and hates that he is so taken by what Will  _could_  say.

Dangerous and gratifying. Will's hand tightens on Hannibal's hand so suddenly that Hannibal catches a small flicker of a wince before it can form. Instead he watches as it seemingly jumps between them to flicker behind Will's eyes. Will speaks of his uncertainty, of not knowing what's coming, of being  _inconvenienced_ by each other, and Hannibal's lips thin.

Will cannot possibly mean what it sounds like he's implying, yet as he goes on, speaking of what Hannibal has done ( _'you're already under my skin, in my bones, carving up my skull...'_ ) he has to wonder. However it's the last note, the last phrase, that truly jumps out at Hannibal.

' _I don't particularly want you to be anywhere else, but maybe I don't have a choice in the matter...'_

There is no guessing as to what that means, and Hannibal is caught. Torn immediately between bitterness and awe and amusement, it pulls in every direction for a few moments before finally fading into an amalgamation of all three. Hannibal's expression doesn't change save for the look in his eyes, which suddenly registers as almost fond and  _definitely_  bitter. Then he allows himself a single twitch of his lips, the smile definitely bitter.

"Then perhaps we are not so different after all," Hannibal says quietly, and his thumb presses against the back of Will's hand, stroking once along the length of his fingers, over his knuckles.

"No one has ever compromised me as you have, and I wish only that I could have excised the issue when it so clearly had wished my downfall. Yet I could not, and I cannot. You have not only stained me, you've bled beneath my skin. So deeply that I fear any attempt to remove you would be fatal. You don't know what's to come, and neither do I. I cannot predict you. You are... volatile. An explosion. I can hope only to contain the damage, not prevent it. Yet still I remain within the blast radius, for I would rather watch your brilliance and fire than move to safety."

He glances sidelong at Will, expression bitter and somewhat resigned.

" _That_  is what love does to me, Will. That is what  _you_  do to me. I wish I could say I hate you for it. Yet despite it all, here I am. The definition of insanity."

* * *

Warning sounds ring out, alarms blaring in his mind that this isn't a safe topic of conversation (and why is he always dredging them up, shouldn't it be Hannibal instead?). Will should pull his hand away, pull his heart away, but he needs to hear Hannibal's response. So, he stays frozen, his eyes looking anywhere but at Hannibal's own pair.

The plane picks up speed and somehow his heart does too. He's still aroused, but it's not that he wants to get off, not that it's a problem that he simply must remedy. He wants to be closer to Hannibal, he wants to be off of this goddamn plane where he can push him up against a wall (any wall would do) and he wants take and give. What is it about them that sparks such feelings of recklessness? That pushes Will to feel so out of control, to never be satisfied and to be ravenous like the wendigo?

Will's unsure if having an answer would even help. ('I have a problem, doctor, but you're not the curing sort, are you?' No, he wouldn't be inquiring as there's no fun in the fixing for Hannibal, was there?)

The problem is that Will feels like he may be getting in over his head already, the waves picking up, the sky turning dark and the sounds of rumbling thunder in the distance. He needs to stay focused. He can't let this - whatever this is - erode away his resolve. He will plant his feet firmly in the shattered debris of his life and not be moved. He'll cling to his anger. His betrayal. The injustice. He'll--

But as Hannibal speaks, Will slants his head down. How the fuck does he feel guilty? It's a sick and slimy feeling (like the wendigo evoked). He's taken a glimpse into Hannibal's conflicted psyche - the struggle between logic and the heart - and how Will has brought mass upheaval to a once controlled and idyllic life. (‘ _Then perhaps we are not so different after all_ ’ - yes, exactly.)

He's sweating more, but now his increased breathing and heart rate have began to take on a panicked edge. He thought he wanted to destroy, yes, to catch Hannibal in his own explosion, to bring about a ruinous end, but hearing it confuses Will. He hadn't expected such brutal honesty (and it's beautiful too, beautiful as only a natural disaster can be).

_‘That is what love does to me, Will. That is what you do to me. I wish I could say I hate you for it. Yet despite it all, here I am. The definition of insanity.’_

"We're clearly both crazy," Will mutters and pulls his head away from Hannibal's hand, signaling a finish to this latest interaction, an end to the conversion.

Their hands remain clasped. He can feel sweat soaking his shirt, against his brow, his back, under his armpits. Hopefully wherever they were going, a shower could be in the plan. He could ask, but why spoil the surprise? He looks outside the window and hopes his erection will dissipate sooner rather than later.

* * *

They bring this out in each other. Manipulation, awe, obsession, and honesty. Hannibal had no more been expecting Will's honesty than Will is expecting his, and as his words register and Will's gaze drops like a stone in the ocean, he knows that there is something  _more_  to this moment, to this interaction. For a split second Will looks shamed but Hannibal merely regards him as he speaks and then dismisses it.

What he has to say is not particularly flattering. It's brutally honest. It's visceral and honest in the way the deep gouges from a panther are raked into the tender hide of its prey. It's said for one reason only: duplicity. Will had given him something, so Hannibal had given it back in turn. While they lack foundation, Hannibal does not lack manners. Perhaps it's ridiculous but in this, he will remain firm. One good turn deserves another, just as he fully intends to fight fire with fire. Moves and counters.

Will's shame does register as  _more_  though. Hannibal silently files it away, and he watches almost wearily as Will's pupils dilate further, as his breathing begins to quicken. He's panicked for some reason and while the scent does alter Will's arousal and make it significantly headier on the air, it reaches a careful plateau and doesn't tip over. Hannibal waits, idly wondering just how far Will's panic will go, but aside from quickening his breathing and adding a slight sourness to his scent that Hannibal still finds infuriatingly appealing, he seems like he's able to get a grip upon his own panic again fairly soon.

When Will brings himself back down, it's with a silent crash. Hannibal sees it in his eyes, sees the heat and the panic and the resignation there even before Will speaks. Neither of them know what to do in this situation. They are, the both of them, flying blind. The same resignation reflects in Hannibal's eyes.

So when Will speaks and then shifts, drawing away from Hannibal's shoulder, it comes as no surprise. Hannibal merely watches him in silence, breathing in what true resignation smells like, and then he turns his attention back ahead without saying a word. Between them, he still holds Will's hand. The definition of insanity indeed.

The plane lifts from the air but aside from the change in pressure, it's almost seamless, as is the flight itself. However no matter how little turbulence they find themselves caught in as they fly over central America, it doesn't change the fact that something has shifted. The turbulence isn't outside the plane, it's within them both.

Hannibal remains silent, head tipped back against the seat as the plane flies, and he allows Will the privacy of whatever he can find. With Will's hand firmly held, Hannibal strides the halls of his memory palace, listening to music he'd heard twenty years ago from a young composer whose skill on the keys left a lot to be desired, but whose passion was unmatched. The wavering notes are haunting and impossible to replicate but for within his own mind.

The only times he emerges from the careful blanket of concentration and meditation is when the flight attendant - Caroline - makes her way down the aisle. Hannibal calmly orders more champagne to nurse but directs her to ensure Will's glass is kept as filled as he needs it to be. Following their visceral admissions, Hannibal doubts strongly that Will wishes to be fully sober for the rest of the trip.

So as the patchwork quilt of land under the plane grows wider and wider before shrinking from farmland into bustling cities, Hannibal retreats back into his own mind, sips his champagne, and allows himself to think of Will Graham and this new unique mess. He wonders just how much of a mess is waiting back in Baltimore and spares one distant thought to Abigail Hobbs before his mind drifts away from her. She's been given her instructions. She's a smart girl.

The plane lands two time zones later, after nearly four hours in the sky. While Will is perhaps a little difficult to rouse from the seat after a long flight, Hannibal instructs him to stretch his legs in a series of quick exercises and then stands. To Hannibal's surprise, he hadn't taken full advantage of the instructions he'd given Caroline.

Will is tipsy when he stands and Hannibal relents for long enough to steady him but it doesn't take long for Will to be able to stand on his own. He looks drained and a little withdrawn and Hannibal catches a few glances shot his way but Will doesn't say anything. He's retreated back into a more docile shell as far as Hannibal can tell. While he still smells of sweat and arousal, Hannibal doubts he's nearly as aroused as before, but even he can see that Will needs a proper shower. He does look drained.

So it's with a series of almost-touches and gentle guidance that Hannibal takes their bags and leads the way off the plane. He blatantly keeps an arm not-quite-wrapped around Will as they make their way through the crowds of people in the airport, the sun hot, the humidity high in San Antonio. Hannibal looks around in silence but his calm, assertive demeanor works. No one bothers them, and it is a simple matter to pick up a rental car (reserved under the name Nikolas Fischer as of that morning) and drive to the hotel, where they do have set reservations this time.

It's just as opulent as the first but Hannibal hardly bats an eye. He merely leaves Will by the doors, walks to the front desk to handle check-in, and when he returns with the key card, he considers for a moment and then hands it to Will.

"I believe you would enjoy a shower, and perhaps some rest," he decides, leading the way to the elevator and hitting the button for one of the higher floors.

* * *

Honesty is good. Honesty from Hannibal is a step in the right direction. This is what Will tells himself, what he wants to believe. He tries to excuse and push down his own worry. It's all a game, a series of moves, and as long as he can keep afloat and paddle toward the finish line, Hannibal's love would do the rest; his love would be a noose, manacles, the proverbial ball and chain holding him down. Will just needs to keep it together and not let his empathy flare up. He can't think of Hannibal Lecter as an undeserving victim, he can't let being seen and being given attention equate to further feelings developing (he's still only human).

Pulling away, calming down, gathering himself back up is the smart choice and for once Will Graham takes it. They've both shown vulnerability, bared themselves and taken a risk. It hasn't been catastrophic, but it's been draining nonetheless. A few hours of silence sounds perfect. Hannibal seems more than fine, of course, adjusting to the change but allowing their hands to remain connected.

Will should, perhaps, be offended that Hannibal has deemed it appropriate to encourage Caroline in refilling his glass. Normally his alcohol tolerance is decent, and while the room service was excellent, Will had only picked at his food at breakfast. Still, he drinks the bubbly champagne, glass by glass and enjoys the light flavor.

(He wants to taste Hannibal's mouth... Let his tongue both share and sample in the sweetness, but he won't be asking for another kiss, no.) He tries to will his hard-on away, but it's not an easy feat.

He's never liked flying, usually feeling like a sardine sandwiched amidst loud personalities and jostled too easily by other's commotion. First class greatly helps this, however. The space and lack of other passengers very appreciated. (No, it's not Hannibal next to him and holding his hand that's helping.) Gradually, with the help of alcohol and no more forthcoming bouts of honesty, Will relaxes, both in terms of physical arousal and nerves.

Mentally? He's not so lucky. His mind is replaying the strikingly intense moments - hearing Hannibal's tone, his words, remembering the brief touch of fingers against his knuckles, the lingering touch of Hannibal's mouth to his own. Yes, he wants more of it all. (Maybe Hannibal has the right bait for him because Will is enticed and hooked already.)

Will's is in a more sullen mood when they land, mind and body dulled over from alcohol. He's careful in getting up and exiting the plane, not wanting to risk a fall. Hannibal helps him a little and he wants to bristle at the aid, but he holds his tongue. He's going to have to pick and choose his battles more carefully. Will feels a little like a child being lead by Hannibal, but they eventually make it through the airport, to the rental agency and then into the rental car. Will's glad to be away from other people even if it means a somewhat awkwardly quiet car ride to wherever next. Will spends his time divided between looking out of the window and fidgeting with the vents in the car, adjusting the trajectory to better aim the cool air at himself.

He rolls his eyes at the obviously overpriced four star hotel they'll apparently be frequenting for at least the night. Nothing but the best for Hannibal of course (and Will by proxy now). Once again, Will loiters in the lobby while Hannibal adopts a carefully crafted persona and checks them in. This elevator ride is met with no snarky comments from Will. He simply nods his head in agreement to the suggestion of a shower and a rest.

The lavish exterior blurs and when he's finally let into their room (another one bed... But a king size, at least) and Will is hurrying into the bathroom to strip and shower. Hannibal is not invited this time. He's half hard in a matter of a few minutes, body choosing to associate hotel showers with Hannibal now. Just great. He could jerk off. Wil probably should, but he decides against it and just lathers himself up with the complementary body wash and rinses away the all too familiar feeling and smell of anxious sweat. He's in the shower no longer than ten minutes until he's stepping out. It's then he realizes he hadn't actually brought his bag into the bathroom and he definitely doesn't want to put on what he'd just been wearing.

So, after drying off, he wraps the soft towel around his waist, regards himself in the mirror and walks out of the bathroom like it had been his plan all along. Hannibal glances at him, but his eyes roam downward, not long, but enough that a slightly inebriated Will feels like being an asshole.

"Like what you see?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not asking you for shit," Will hisses out defiantly. "If you want to do something, do it. After all, I'm all ready for you, my legs spread, on my back - _wet_." It's all true. He's embarrassed, shaking from a low simmering anger at feeling like he's Hannibal's fucking _woman._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ٩( ᐛ )و Woo hoo, an update! (And sorry @ Alana and Margot. WE DO LOVE YOU.)
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you [attic-nights](http://attic-nights.tumblr.com) for the beta!

It takes little effort to get Will to agree to a shower in the end. He must feel as drained as he looks for he doesn't argue. He merely looks at Hannibal and nods, taking the time to use the railing in the elevator as something to lean against as it climbs high into the building.

When they arrive, Hannibal decides their room will do. He follows Will, holding the door for them both after Will merely opens it without a backward glance, and sets both their bags down beside the bed. Will lingers only for long enough to cast a look about the room and then he turns, ducking into the bathroom without a word.

Hannibal merely watches him go, and while he does notice that Will hasn't asked him to join, he hardly takes offense. Will looks exhausted and drained, and he smells of mild inebriation. Ever the introvert, Hannibal simply assumes Will needs the time alone to recharge and so he takes and moves Will's bag over to the side of the bed Will had chosen in their previous hotel room, assuming it's the side Will prefers. Hannibal then sighs, slipping his suit jacket off to carefully fold and drape over the back of one of the chairs, and standing in front of the mirror tidies his vest, shirt, and tie.

As the shower starts, Hannibal allows himself to idly listen to make sure there's no crashes to signal Will slipping or tripping. He listens to the soft sounds of another body close and merely sits back on the bed, allowing his mind to wander to the situation at hand. The honesty shared in the plane had been volatile and dangerous. To be fair, it likely should have gone unsaid. Will's admission of not knowing what this was, of his desire to guard parts of himself needlessly for Hannibal's presence had already seeped through his cracks has left a bitter, wry taste on the back of Hannibal's tongue. Was this what their new life is to be? Mutual bitterness, guarded plays, and sudden bouts of violence, need, and tenderness?

Regardless of how Hannibal attempts to paint it negatively in his mind, he can't quell the small aching twist of relief at having Will _present_ even so. Perhaps it's masochistic, this desire he feels for such an unstable creature, this _sentiment_ he feels. Sexual desire is one thing, an itch easily scratched and dismissed. Sentiment - emotion, _love_ \- is much more difficult. It's like ink staining one's hands, cloying and thick, seeping deep into the grooves of each fingerprint and remaining for some time. Hannibal isn't certain _when_ he had allowed himself to become so weak, so affected by Will's presence in his life, but he hates it as much as he craves it. A fool in love, collared and chained but still wild.

The bitter twist to Hannibal's thoughts remains long after the water in the bathroom turns off. He listens to the sounds of movement, still seated on the bed, and when Will finally opens the door and steps out amidst a small cloud of steam that fills the room with the scent of soap and heat, Hannibal looks over at him and hates the way heat twists deep within.

Will Graham is a stunning man, delicate features made rough by facial hair, and hair perhaps shorter now but no less wild even following a shower. He's deceptively strong, his shoulders broader than his posture makes him out to be, his chest solid from years of engine repair and physical activity with his dogs. He drowns himself in his clothing typically, making him look small and frail, wearing oversized clothes so as to appear a good twenty pounds more slight. While Hannibal had seen him in his entirety the night before, he can not help the way his gaze lingers for perhaps only a second too long. Yet as he looks back up to Will's face, he sees that the glance has not gone unnoticed. Will's expression is complicated, pinched, and Hannibal wonders just what Will had been thinking of during the last ten minutes.

His voice, when he speaks, is both slightly slurred and slightly churlish. Bitterness then. How wonderful that they both are on the same page. Yet despite the sarcasm, Hannibal cannot deny that Will does look good. He sets his jaw, irritated, but allows himself another look, slower, and doesn't miss that Will is once again slightly aroused.

‘ _Like what you see?’_

"I do. As do you, apparently."

It's just as clipped as what Will had said, and Hannibal lifts his chin, sitting ever so slightly straighter. There is a vague idea forming in the back of his mind, not yet whole but getting there. Hannibal looks him over again and then silently holds a hand out.

"Come here, Will," Hannibal says, and it takes Will a few moments to decide; he seems to draw himself up in a farce of confidence and strides over.

Hannibal reaches out and sets his hand upon Will's hip, over heat-damp skin, and then allows himself a languid moment to look him over, admiring the flush of heat to Will's skin.

"Do you often find yourself reacting so strongly to the mere thought of being touched?"

* * *

He knows better than to poke, but alcohol and stress make it all too easy for Will to be snarky. It feels _good_ to catch Hannibal appraising him positively, his eyes lingering just long enough to be noticeable. But this beast he's taunted has claws, has teeth, and Hannibal isn't choosing to be overly mild mannered in this. Instead, Hannibal points out Will's unfortunate re-emergence of his arousal (he'd tried to push it out of his mind).

Will's made an effort to _not_ notice if others look at him. In his mind, he's nothing special. Rough around the edges, scruffy, average build, but with social difficulties and his personality, he's no catch, not by a long shot. It had got even worse after the notoriety of catching/killing Hobbs. Being framed for murder and then released hadn't helped either. Will purposefully keeps his head down. (Easier to stave off the inevitable disaster.)

Yet Hannibal seems to like the sight of him well enough (or is it just his darkness that attracts Hannibal, that makes him desirable?). Hannibal loves some part of him... It's a strange notion. It sits uncomfortable inside Will. A fact that he can't ever truly forget about now. Love may be a basic human need, but Will hasn't ever considered himself to be longing for such an ideal. Happy endings were for storybooks and the movies. Companionship. Sex. Affection. These were what Will wanted, whether or not he would admit it...

And by now, Hannibal knows that if he beckons Will over, he'll come. Yes, in this he's reduced, brought lower, his weakness shown and on display for the two of them. He's an ignored dog facing the prospect of attention; Hannibal even has his hand outstretched. Still, Will hesitates, bitterness churning in his stomach. It's not comfortable to be predictable, to be maneuvered like this, Hannibal pulling on his strings, but Will wants to be wanted, so like a moth drawn to a light, he goes.

He tries to stand up straighter, to not let the outside reflect his wretched and needy insides. Does he succeed? Will doesn't know, but he walks to Hannibal who's seated on the bed, the soft carpet under his bare feet a slight distraction. The hand comes to his hip and Will looks down to it, their only means of contact (for now).

_'Do you often find yourself reacting so strongly to the mere thought of being touched?’_

Will tenses at the question, his hands curling into fists by his side. They're swerving back into the embarrassment and humiliation territory.

"No... But I'm not exactly touched often," Will admits, hoping his voice doesn't sound so damn pathetic. "Should I thank you for sending Margot my way?"

* * *

What a fascinating creature Will Graham is. A proud man reduced to nothing but a series of bitter impulses that contradict and match Hannibal's own at the same time. Just as he sits bitterly and feels the sharp jut of Will's hip beneath his hand, so too does Will stand before him, looking down at him with an expression that radiates bitterness and discomfort. Hannibal wonders for a moment if this is Will's attempt at subtlety. Surely not. He can see the clench to Will's fists, the way his spine goes rigid. It's clear as little trickles of water alter their path down his chest, showing Hannibal that he's shifted his position and by how much.

Yet even so Will is not defeated. Hannibal doesn't know if he's simply upset, bitter, angry, or a mix of all three. Will had still come to him, still walked over, still stopped exactly as Hannibal had told him to. That means something. That means that regardless of Will's irritation (that much is certain; alcohol makes Will more transparent) his need to feel desired, to feel wanted, far outshines his own negative emotions. Hannibal files that away but even as he does so, he's uncertain what he plans to do with it. For once, they are on even footing in a sense. Neither of them can predict each other.

It's something that is made immediately apparent as Will speaks up. Initially he sounds somewhat self-deprecating and Hannibal considers speaking up before dismissing the idea; he is not yet fully impartial enough to play therapist in this moment. He finds that is beyond true when Will continues, for his comment is curved and barbed just enough that Hannibal knows it had been aimed to cast under his skin.

He takes his time in looking back up at Will, stroking his thumb over the jut of Will's hip. Hannibal looks thoughtful only for a moment and then he gives Will a pointed tug, firm enough that there's a definite risk of being thrown off balance if Will doesn't grab for his shoulders. It leaves his towel less than secure, but Hannibal is not fully above being petty when the situation calls for it.

"If you feel the desire to, yes," Hannibal replies simply, and takes silent delight as Will teeters for a moment, clearly trying to battle gravity and his own inherent stubbornness, but in the end he can't. His hands come down on Hannibal's shoulders for balance and Hannibal offers him the smallest of smiles, tightening his grip upon Will's waist to steady him but making no move to catch the towel as it falls.

To his credit, Hannibal doesn't look. He doesn't have to. His gaze remains on Will's face, though he does take a pointed breath, scenting the soap from the shower, the remnants of alcohol, and Will's aroused heat upon the air.

"Were you satisfied? I admit, I was... surprised to learn that you had slept with her, given your empathy and her predilection for a different gender."

It's a leading question, though Hannibal's tone remains as mild as it can. He is curious, but more than that, he wishes to push, to test. Will's behavior makes sense as his filters are clearly down, but his comments - so clearly aimed to annoy - rankle far more than Hannibal would like.

* * *

For a moment, they're at a standstill. Will focuses on the hand on his hip, trying hard to not let himself give in and look to Hannibal's face. Bringing up Margot Verger isn't wise. Will knows this, but it's too late to take it back. Besides, Hannibal wouldn't allow such a thing.

It's proven just how unwise as Hannibal seeks to now physically unbalance him - jerking him forward by the hold on his hip - and Will's equilibrium predictably flounders. His balance already is not the best given the alcohol, and it's with a begrudging desperation, that his hands come to grasp onto Hannibal's shoulders to steady himself.

Of course, his towel falls to his feet a beat later. Will stares ahead at the wall behind him, at a painting of white lilies that's supposed to evoke calmness, likely. He's never understood the appeal of flowers, especially as gifts or for decoration at weddings or funerals. They were delicate. Their job was to look pretty and their fate was to die. Even so, the framed art gives him a point to focus on.

He's not going to stress out about being naked. Why would he? Hannibal's already seen him and there's no need to be bashful. It doesn't feel good or okay to be this exposed, but Will simply accepts it. He's not particularly clear in which ways Hannibal desires him, if Hannibal actually finds him physically and sexually appealing, or if it's his desperation and darkness that fan the flame. (He's not going to ask about it.)

He doesn't exactly know why he decided to bring up Margot. They've not discussed _her_ exactly, choosing to, at the time, speak on impending fatherhood and then dealing with Mason afterward... Will isn't sure he wants to know why Hannibal tried to push Margot and him together. Frankly, it pisses him off more than he'd like to admit to have Hannibal, once again, meddling in his personal life. He'd taken Alana, what had been the point in ushering Margot his way? Surely Hannibal didn't want to actually _give_ him a child as he helped Mason discover the existence of the pregnancy, after all and he knew how Mason would react to it. Will digs his nails into Hannibal's shoulders. Was it simply curiosity? Because Hannibal _could?_

"Obviously satisfied enough that I came inside of her," Will bluntly replies. He could leave it at that. (He probably should.) Maybe Hannibal is also the jealous type. It wouldn't surprise Will. He's not going to admit and share about the unsettling discomfort he'd experienced during the actual incident. How touching her scars and her touching his had made him feel a little less alone, how his craving to both be touched and to touch had trumped his better reason. They had been two broken things, each longing for something the other didn't possess, but desperate enough to take what they could nonetheless.

"Maybe I imagined someone else, someone that you had in your own bed," Will continues, but his voice has taken on a more sultry tone. Yes, he'll push back. He'll play.

"Did you ever think of me when you touched her? Was it all the sweeter knowing that I desired her?" He finally glances down and decides to take a risk by allowing his hands to find their way into Hannibal's hair, fingers combing through sandy strands. "Did you feel closer to me? How about the first time you kissed?"

Will licks his own lips in a slow show before adding, "You knew my mouth had been on her's."

It feels borderline _wrong_ to be disrespecting Alana like this, but Will feels a bit petulant.

* * *

The cat has claws. It's nothing Hannibal doesn't already know, but the phrasing still catches him briefly off guard considering how quickly Will gives his response. It's blunt, delivered with the same bite as the way he digs his nails into Hannibal's shoulders. The only difference is that Hannibal's shoulders are still covered by his dress shirt, blunting his nails, and Will's words hit their mark. There's nothing to shield them save Hannibal's own mind, and the flight and Will's distance and mood swings have slowly taken their toll upon him.

While Hannibal doesn't frown, he’s not pleased either, and there's a definite note of something darker behind his eyes. The reminder of Will's dalliance is not a pleasant one. Manipulation, yes, but not one Hannibal had enjoyed. The thought of Will with another had not brought him pleasure then and it doesn't now.

Hannibal wonders how Will had looked for little more than a moment, but it's enough to twist something in his chest. He _is_ a jealous man when it comes to Will Graham, apparently. He has never strictly been jealous before. Likely because he's never coveted something as much as he has this man. The thought of Margot with him is bitter.

Had Will lost himself in pleasure the same way he had on the road, in the shower? Surely not. Yet that small twist of jealousy is like a needle under his skin, a mild pinch, yes, but capable of doing so much more damage over time. Who's to say what the syringe could contain? Who is to say that Will hadn't enjoyed himself equally? It's enough to spark a small desire - reckless as it is - to carve those memories from Will's mind. Hannibal looks at Will in silence, expression tight, jaw tense in displeasure, but aside from that, there is no other indication of his anger. Of his jealousy.

That is... there is no other indication until Will speaks again, and _this_ implication is enough to tighten his hands upon Will's waist. In little more than a day, there will be bruises along Will's skin. It's a pointed barb, though one delivered in a tone of voice suddenly lower and smoother. Will has ironed out the brittle tone of his voice, worn rough with disuse. He's testing back, a swift riposte that Hannibal would find charming were it not for the curl of irritation within.

An inebriated Will Graham is a reckless one, he discovers, for he doubts very strongly that Will would have risked asking his very pointed questions had he not spent nearly four hours on a plane and much of that time spent at least mentally aroused. Alcohol has loosened more than Will's tongue, Hannibal suspects.

There is a charge between them, growing ever stronger with each second, and the intelligent thing to do would be to simply set Will on the bed and leave. Hannibal has something he needs to do, the entire purpose behind coming to Texas to begin with. Yet instead of standing and excusing himself, he finds himself watching the way Will licks his lips and feels an answering stir of frustrated desire curl through him. This isn't what Hannibal had intended, but he knows a simple way to turn things back around. He needs only the truth.

"Yes," he says clearly, and his grip on Will's waist eases, leaving small pink marks behind where his fingers had pressed in.

He leans in just enough for Will to feel the heat of Hannibal's breath against his skin, though doesn't yet close the distance completely. Instead he considers how mad the two of them must be to be once again playing this game. Sex and desire are simple and anger and betrayal are energized emotions. Sex is a simple way to assist with this, but Hannibal finds himself surprised just _how_ tempting the thought truly is.

"I thought of you. I enjoyed the knowledge that I was taking her from you," Hannibal adds, and a small shiver races down his spine as Will's fingers slide comfortably through his hair. His voice thins to reflect this, though he does make a point to try and maintain his own control. "That with every kiss, I was both erasing yours from her mind and yet taking it unto myself. Many times, I imagined it was you under me."

There is no shame in his voice, for Hannibal feels none. While he will maintain Alana's secrets and he has no desire to speak freely regarding their time together out of respect, _this_ is about Will. Hannibal draws him closer, shifting back on the bed ever so slightly. If Will wishes the closeness, he will have to intentionally climb up onto the bed and straddle Hannibal's lap. Hannibal lifts his chin, silently daring, though he does enjoy the slide of Will's fingers in his hair.

"Do you still desire her, Will? Would you be satisfied to have her, knowing she would always be comparing you to me? Or perhaps," Hannibal says, and his hands slide down, resting low on Will's hips, so low that it borders on inappropriate, " _her_ company is no longer what you desire..."

* * *

Hannibal's grip is tight on his hip, it borders on being too painful, but this _is_ Hannibal after all, so why shouldn't there be pain? Why shouldn't it hurt? There should be bruises, there should be marks. Will's marked Hannibal's neck, after all, one hidden and one available to be gawked at. Will invited him on the plane to leave one, too. But, of course, Hannibal wouldn't do such a lewd action in public. In this room? Alone and while they pull and push at each other, while they disrespect former bed partners? Yes, Hannibal will grip him hard, will throw him off balance and Will takes it.

(It's interest. It's attention. Hannibal must know this. Will asking, Will begging... He's been blatant, transparent and Hannibal has been his observant self, accruing notes now not kept in a book. It's likely flattering, empowering to be wanted, yet Hannibal hasn't exactly rubbed it in Will's face... yet.)

It's only when he brings up Alana Bloom that Hannibal seems to darken more noticeably. It's difficult to know who has started what, what question or comment set them on this path. Will knows that they both instigate - he may not be as subtle as Hannibal is, but the older man isn't innocent, oh no. Hannibal may prefer to nudge, to coax whereas Will is far more rough and direct, but it's all the same in the end. They both rile each other up.

Hannibal is right. Copious amounts of champagne and being stuck sweating and in his own mind have encouraged Will to be far more careless than he might otherwise have been. For all that has been spoken, asked, and answered, what's truly been _said_? What's been settled? The groundwork they're laying down for this relationship is shoddy at best; an unstable foundation.

Will remembers Jack asserting he was bedrock... Back then, Hannibal was supposed to be a stability, the damn paddle to count on. Will isn't so sure Hannibal is collected and in control of himself _now_. They are surely a calamity waiting to happen - both of them containing the necessary ingredients for an explosion, but both of them too crazy to walk away.

He's hooked Hannibal. Will delights in the way Hannibal's eyes watch him lick his lips. He doesn't know what response he's expecting precisely, but it's not Hannibal _agreeing_ and his hold easing up. Hannibal _should_ have chided him for being rude, but instead, Hannibal follows the likely ill-advised path Will is guiding them down. He doesn't know if Hannibal is telling him the truth or embellishing for his sake. They both still possess the capacity to deceive each other. Hearing Hannibal admit that he imagined Will under him... Will takes in a sharper breath and tugs on Hannibal's hair, obviously affected by the idea.

When Hannibal slides back on the bed, it's all too clear what he's presenting as the next step to take. Logically, it makes sense to just climb up onto Hannibal's lap. Will's aroused and Hannibal is here and why shouldn't be take advantage of the situation? (Say farewell to any propriety.)

Will's hands cease their exploration in Hannibal's hair at the line of questioning that is perhaps the most relevant to them now. Does he still want Alana? Maybe. Would he be satisfied even if she undoubtedly compared him with Hannibal. Not likely. A hand comes down close to his cock and Will swallows down an excited sound.

 _‘Or perhaps,_ her _company is no longer what you desire…’_

That's all it takes for Will to curse under his breath and throw what little caution he has left to the wind and surge forward, the distance between them diminishing as Will climbs onto the bed and then onto Hannibal's lap. His hands are back on Hannibal's shoulders to steady himself as he settles shaky limbs down, straddling the older man in the process.

"Just you now, you bastard," Will spits out. "Apple of my eye, my Achilles, whatever other flowery bullshit you get off on."

He's grinding into Hannibal, kissing and nipping at Hannibal's jaw. One hand finds its way back to Hannibal's head, works its way into somewhat disheveled hair and seeks to make it worse.

* * *

Reckless. The both of them are reckless and Hannibal shouldn't be encouraging this, but after the last few hours, how can he do anything else? Will is a mess of poor decisions and temptation rolled up into one and as Hannibal looks up at him, _daring_ Will to make any move at all, he swears he can taste the heat of him on the back of his tongue even now. Addiction and religion, the both of them swept up in the same beast with two names.

Will's fingers are sharp in his hair and Hannibal fights against a visceral, visible reaction to the pleasure of having Will's fingers curled and pulling. It's rude, but it's also Will, and Hannibal remembers the grip Will had maintained in his hair only the evening before. He swallows down the remembered desire, still annoyed that Will had been so presumptuous yet still silently riding the wave of euphoria following the knowledge that he had _had_ Will Graham in some way.

He's seen Will in pleasure twice, and already the thought of him wild - wrenched with sadism and cruelty or shaken apart and desperate, he cares little - is enough to force Hannibal's hand. He encourages the tug to his hair, silently drinks down Will's sharp inhale, and he knows immediately that Will is as affected by this standoff of theirs as he. Why shouldn't he be? Will Graham is the most reckless man that Hannibal knows, and while it's dangerous to intentionally bait him, this is what has been building since early that morning.

The evening had ended with Will's soft, sleep-fueled admission. The morning had been a return to the car ride, quiet, stilted, uncomfortable, with Will withdrawn. He'd flirted with danger each time he looked pleased that people were viewing the mark left high on Hannibal's throat. He'd openly flirted with the idea of Hannibal getting him off on the plane before the reality had startled him away. And now, with alcohol in his system, after sitting on arousal for a few hours, Will is as reckless as Hannibal is, walking out mostly-bare from the shower only to cast out pointed bait. That Hannibal has finally found himself frustrated enough to bite is testament to his dwindling control.

Just the way Will's pupils blow wide following Hannibal's words is a testament to his control. Hannibal watches, waiting, silently coaxing. He touches Will low enough to see him tremble, plants soft seeds of doubt about Alana, and when he offers up his final suggestion, he is not surprised that Will takes his bait.

It's as violent and reckless as he'd been assuming, for Will curses and all but throws himself forward. Hannibal accepts it, drawing him in close, and even as Will's lips and teeth catch his jaw, Hannibal braces one hand back on the bed and allows himself a small smirk at the sound of Will so audibly affected. His voice is low and rough, his tone tight with desperation, and he allows himself a soft sound of satisfaction when Will grinds down into him. The sound sharpens at the stroke of Will's fingers through his hair, and Hannibal allows himself a soft chuckle. It's almost cruel.

"Shall divine intervention bring us down, Will?"

He doubts it. Divine intervention has no intention to slaughter without dropping church roofs on worshipers.

Yet as much as he enjoys this, as quickly as he can feel himself growing hard in his own slacks, he’s aware of their positioning and that he doesn't have another pair of pants to change into for after this. As lovely as Will looks straddling his thighs, as achingly perfect as the feel of his weight is, practicality comes into play.

One moment Will is straddling him and rutting down against him, his lips soft and teeth sharp, and the next Hannibal moves. He fits a hand against the small of Will's back and another where his ass becomes his thigh and twists sharply, using momentum to re-position them both. It's sudden and quick, and when he's finished, he's shoved Will back onto his back on the bed and followed him down, bracing himself on his elbows and lying between Will's spread thighs. He allows Will a moment to feel the softer fabric of his vest along Will's cock and then he draws back and leans up. He doesn't go far, but he moves his clothes away from Will's cock, using one hand to grip Will's hip and keep him pinned.

"As I recall, you get quite wet the more aroused you become," he comments, allowing himself the freedom of looking Will over finally, of breathing in his scent blatantly. "Had you given me the chance to return home and pack a few bags, I would have clothing to change into and this wouldn't be a problem. But as I don't, you rutting against me will stain, and I believe _one_ focal point is more than enough."

Hannibal reaches up with his other hand to awkwardly undo the first few buttons of his collar (it's difficult while balancing on his elbow) so as to indicate the marks Will had left behind. Hannibal leans in just enough to scrape a soft kiss just under Will's chin.

"So barring that, what do you want, Will? Ask me," he adds, and it's not a request.

* * *

Will's never been this sexual before. Never been this forward in both wanting and seeking it out, in letting it permeate his thoughts and drive him as such. Before Margot, it had been a good few years since he'd been been laid. Jerking off in the shower had been a staple for him. Coming twice in a night? Wanting to get off again the next morning? It's like Hannibal has greatly amped up his sex drive. And while it's invigorating, tantalizing to be indulged like this, it's also worrisome because Will's afraid of what's behind their actions, what they're skirting around - what he doesn't want to face.

So, he bites at the bait - he clambers to be closer - he closes the distance between them, once again making the decision to come to Hannibal. He's never be in this position before, climbing on top, sitting in someone's lap, his legs straddling them. Will's been in the reverse, of course. He's been the one on the bottom and encouraging a woman to do this very thing - to grind against him. It's almost a sobering thought.

At the mention of divine intervention, Will snorts. It's more of Hannibal's fanciful bullshit. But _The Iliad_ is just a poem, a story. Whether or not Achilles and Patroclus were lovers didn't matter. They had been divided about the war, Achilles being stubborn and Patroclus going off to his death wearing Achilles' armor. Grief spurred Achilles into rage and Troy paid greatly. They had been fools. At the very least, all of them had that in common.

What would bring them down? Each other, of course. (Will is beginning to see their end already now, the pieces coming together one by one. He will strike first, he'll tear out whatever black heart is in Hannibal's chest, his fingers will have claws like the wendigo and he'll push them into the flesh and rip. He'll gouge. Blood will spray between them, and although Will may surprise Hannibal, may effectively sneak up and stab him in the back, Hannibal won't allow Will to get away unscathed. He used to see himself walking away, finally feeling satisfied, finally tasting the sweetness of revenge, but no, not anymore. Maybe that's what Will deserves. Maybe he'd be put out of his misery. Curtain closed. End of the Will Graham show.)

But they're not there yet.

One moment he's pushing into Hannibal shamelessly and feeling his actions having a result, for Hannibal grows hard too, then the next he's unceremoniously re-positioned and flipped onto his back, laying on the bed. The world spins a little at the sudden change, but he registers Hannibal pinning him and it's not exactly a bad thing at all. It doesn't last.

It turns sour as soon as Hannibal speaks, claiming he gets _wet_. At first Will thinks he's referring to sweat, but no, it's precome. The term 'wet' is distinctly a womanly thing as far as Will is concerned, so this topic has him bucking against Hannibal in indignation. Fuck his clothes if he's going to be like that. Unfortunately, he doesn't really manage it as Hannibal holds his hip down.

"I'm not asking you for shit," Will hisses out defiantly. "If you want to do something, do it. After all, I'm all ready for you, my legs spread, on my back - _wet_." It's all true. He's embarrassed, shaking from a low simmering anger at feeling like he's Hannibal's fucking _woman_.

"Should I talk softer? Bat my eyelashes?" Will's voice does lose its more masculine edge, demonstrating his words.

"' _Oh, you get me so wet, Hannibal. Would you go down on me, lick my pussy_ \--'" He's being more than a little ridiculous, Will knows this.

* * *

Will Graham is a man stunning in anger. He looks breathtaking like this, his back flat against the sheets, skin bare and slightly damp from his shower, with a low flush of arousal coloring it.

Once, Hannibal had allowed himself to imagine moments like this in the back of his mind. He'd never imagined Will would permit them, of course, but to have Will a willing participant, to slowly take him apart, to listen to his soft sounds and learn his body had once been Hannibal's greatest fantasy, aside from pressing a scalpel to Will's palm and watching him open a nameless creature, wet to his forearms with blood. Yet reality is very infrequently kind to fantasy. Even when Will had been most pliant, in the shower, there had been no soft touches, no aching cries, no nails digging into his back as he'd given Will pleasure. No, neither of them are in a place now where softness and kindness reign supreme.

They are two solitary carnivores circling, isolated, alone but even more alone without the other. They are both desperate for contact, to be _known_ , yet snarl and snap and bite whenever proximity drifts too close. It will take them time to acclimatize to the other, to bury the latent instinct to rip and tear. To see _mate_ instead of _threat_. And that is if they ever reach that point.

Despite the twist of sentiment in Hannibal's chest, despite the bitterness of his emotions and the _love_ he feels for this man, he is not ready to let go. He has forgiven Will his betrayal. He's uncertain if he's forgiven Will his choice to run away with him. He _knows_ Will hasn't forgiven him. Stubborn, infuriating creature.

Neither of them are in a place where they should be close, should be intimate. There is resentment hot under their skin.

Hannibal takes a sick twist of satisfaction in the knowledge that he can so easily press Will back against the bed. He feels satisfied by his own strength, which is not a thought that should accompany one into the bedroom, into intimacy.

And while he means his comment dismissively, Will clearly latches onto it with both hands. There's a wild, embarrassed flush on his face that looks _stunning_ on him even as he fights to buck against him. Hannibal holds him down, but not without effort. Will is not the waif he's made himself out to be, and indignation can be a powerful motivator.

Perhaps there is a feminine connotation to the word _wet_. He had meant it as a more approving observation (though perhaps had also intended it as a barb to see what Will would do, and he's not disappointed) but there are times even after years in America that colloquialisms and slang escape Hannibal's notice. English is not his first language.

Yet perhaps his error has its own uses. Will flushes deeply in embarrassment and Hannibal feels a twist of arousal. He is no less a sadist now than he was before, though feeling sexual gratification from it is... new. It's Will. It's the fire in his eyes, the furrow to his brow that Hannibal wishes to smooth out and deepen again. It's the twitch of a snarl on his lips, the tremble in his muscles that Hannibal can feel.

"Beautiful," Hannibal murmurs, more to himself than to Will, looking down at him in a way that might have been clinical were it not for the heat in his eyes.

Will's voice is cut and snapped at first, and while Hannibal makes a displeased sound at his language, he doesn't object.

Will is stunning in this vulnerable anger, fully naked while Hannibal is still clothed, a flush of embarrassment all the way down his chest, his thighs spread and yes, the tip of his cock wet. Hannibal looks down at him, admiring, but it's not until Will's voice changes, until he affects his voice, that Hannibal allows himself a small derisive snort.

He's about to tell Will that he's _above_ such pettiness, that he has no reason to be _crude_ , but the small stirring of arousal at the words is... unexpected.

Hannibal stills and looks down at him, thoughtful. ( _If you want to do something, do it_ , Will had said) He's silent, his hand tight on Will's hip, and then he merely looks up to meet Will's eyes.

"If you insist," he says.

With one hand on Will's hip, Hannibal shifts. He presses the other against Will's chest, his palm splayed. It's not a touch. It's to keep him in place, and Hannibal makes that known as he eases himself down Will's body. His teeth catch pointedly on a nipple on the way down, biting it hard enough to hurt, and he sucks a mark against the sensitive skin where Will's hip meets his pelvis.

Hannibal isn't exactly gentle as he makes his way down Will's body, wishing for a moment he could simply enjoy him without this violence, but Will is still trembling in anger and Hannibal isn't about to dismiss this idea. He lowers himself down to Will's cock and looks up at him. Then he leans his head down and parts his lips, taking the head of Will's cock past his lips. He could stop here, could taste Will again on his _own_ terms, but this isn't what Hannibal has in mind. This is a deception as much as the hand on Will's chest. Even so, he licks away the precome beading at Will's slit and allows himself to savor the taste. One day he will do this again because _he_ wants to.

Today is not that day. He waits only until Will is distracted enough to not fight. Then in one swift movement, Hannibal draws away. He tightens his hold on Will's hip and leans back, moving his hand from Will's chest down to one of his legs and with only minimal effort, he flips Will onto his stomach before he can properly register that anything has changed.

Hannibal allows himself one moment to admire the picture he makes before one hand finds its way to Will's hips and pulls and the other presses down against his back, keeping Will's head down against the bed and his hips raised.

Hannibal swallows audibly at the sight, ignoring protests, and then simply says, "Keep your chest pressed to the bed. If you move, I will stop."

He gives Will no warning beyond that. No, Hannibal merely slides his hands over Will's back, down over his ass and runs both his palms up the back of Will's thighs. He wishes he could savor the moment, but he also knows that Will is not a patient man.

One moment Hannibal merely kneels, shifting to get comfortable, and the next he slides his hands up to Will's ass and parts his cheeks with his thumbs. The sight is enough to send arousal crashing through him but he keeps it in check.

With no other warning, Hannibal adds, "Since you asked," and then leans in, licking hot from Will's perineum up over his hole.

* * *

 _Wet._ It's a comment that likely Hannibal hadn't even meant to be emasculating. Hannibal isn't a native English speaker - Will knows this. Each language has its own colloquialisms and the like. Still, he's not in the right mind state to be thinking rationally and give Hannibal any allowances.

Will has no idea if he happens to produce more pre-ejaculate than what's average and the only way Hannibal could have observed such a thing was during the roadside blowjob. The shower would have made it difficult to ascertain such a thing; so, Will has to assume he'd been leaking quite a bit when he'd been thrusting into Hannibal's mouth. It's an unseemly realization. Does he feel embarrassed over such knowledge? Maybe a little. Is it shameful? Is his body a traitor in this way too? (He remembers on the plane Hannibal implying that _it_ was alright, that _he_ was alright...)

But it's difficult to not feel some worry or shame over Hannibal's observations. Will's never had physical observations pointed out to him before. He has no idea if Hannibal isn't actually bothered by them. He has no idea if Hannibal is actually fond of his appearance. Being self-conscious isn't what Will wants to do nor is it something he wants to be displaying. Hannibal may love him and that's a weakness, but Will feels like he's given plenty that could be exploitable.

(A part of him is just waiting for Hannibal to show the barest hint that he's simply been humoring him in these things, being disingenuous.)

Perhaps he should be unsettled that Hannibal has pinned him to the bed without any consent on his part. But Hannibal is no rapist and Will is still aroused despite the offending comment. He breathes quickly, conflicted by his own response to 'wet.' Feminization is a thing. Will knows a little, and it usually involved crossdressing... Well, he may understand the appeal, but he doesn't think he'll ever be that that debauched and desperate. Surely, that's a line he wouldn't cross. (But a part of him _is_ curious as to what Hannibal's reaction would be.)

He's on display for Hannibal. Completely naked while Hannibal is nearly fully clothed, and yes, there's a desire to change that, to want the playing field more even, but as Hannibal looks down at him, appearing to be considering something, Will stops trying to thrust his hips upward. He's keenly aware that he's in effect invited Hannibal to give him a blowjob as that's the male equivalent of going down on a woman. Will is more than happy if that is what's going to transpire. It's not going to be that simple, however.

Hannibal's mouth comes to bite a nipple as he works his way down lower. Will gasps at the unfamiliar sensation, unsure if it's something he particularly likes. No other attention is paid to his nipples, so he'll have to figure it out another time. It's an interesting notion knowing how much they still have to discover about each other and that there _will_ be more times to do so in the future. (It's also daunting.)

Will squirms as Hannibal's mouth busies itself in sucking a mark at his pelvis. Will's hands scramble against the comforter, trying to grasp onto it for some support. Even though he knows what's coming next, Will shudders as he feels Hannibal's mouth encircle the tip of his cock. It's blatant what he does next - tongue swiping against whatever has collected and leaked out.

"God, Hannibal--" Will says in excitement, but nothing more comes of it. Instead, Hannibal pulls away and as Will tries to lift his head to glance down, he's once again manhandled without his consent.

What he's positioned into is far worse: his head and chest pressed into the bed, resting against his forearms while Hannibal's hand on his hip raises his ass up. It's reminiscent of doggy style. The sheer vulnerability of how he's presenting himself skyrockets and Will now feels a bit more sympathetic toward his former female partners that have been subjected to this. He'd been behind them; he'd enjoyed the view and the somewhat depravity of it. Now it’s his turn...

Hannibal fucking tells him to keep his chest (and effectively his head) down. Will is too anxious to think of doing otherwise. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut and he trembles at Hannibal's hands runn down his back and down his ass. It's gay. They're going to do something gay. That's all Will knows. He'd mentioned Hannibal's fingers earlier--

So lost in thought is he that he barely registers his ass cheeks being parted. Hearing, ' _since you asked'_ is enough to bring Will back and his mind puts two and two together as he feels a tongue swipe in between and up over his hole. (A pussy could be fingered, could be licked, could be fucked. An asshole... Well, Will had known about two out of the three.) He tenses in response and tries to pull away.

But no, that's not right. He knows how to end this - Hannibal outlined it. Will's chest is still against the bed. His cheek is against the bed. His knees and forearms are against the bed. It becomes obvious that in this position his cock doesn't have any direct stimulation.

"I-I didn't mean this," is all Will manages to say, but it lacks the necessary heat to sound like an argument. Knowing what very likely will be repeated feels dirty, but it also feels significant. It's something Will's uncomfortable about, but he's curious to explore it. He's more exposed than he has ever been to Hannibal. Will breaks out into a sweat, and yes, beads of precome gather at the head of his cock again.

* * *

It either takes great effort or great resentment to make Hannibal pull away from Will's cock, particularly after hearing that soft phrase. He likes it, likes the notion of being deified even though it hadn't been Will's intention, but sadly it's not his plan. He can still taste Will's precome on his tongue even after he flipped Will, spread out beautifully on the bed with his thighs spread and trembling, his hole on full display. It's not an image Hannibal will be forgetting.

He feels Will tense under his hands, undoubtedly feeling how vulnerable a moment this is. He's spread, practically obscene, his cock hard and leaking, his sides shifting with every breath, and Hannibal cannot help but be transfixed by the image. Will Graham is a beautiful man, both in darkness and in his physical form.

All it takes is that first lick over Will's skin for realization to dawn. Hannibal can't see it, but he can feel it in the jolt of tension through Will's body, and he knows immediately that Will is aware of _why_ this is happening. It doesn't change the taste of him, doesn't change how intimate a moment it is.

When Will _does_ begin to pull away in surprise, Hannibal quickly puts a stop to it. He lets go with one hand and curls it around the front of Will's thigh, pulling him back. There's no ' _stop'_ , there's no vocalized demand, and so he doesn't. Instead Hannibal makes a small sound in the back of his throat and draws back. He checks: Will's chest is still flat against the bed and he's still resting on his forearms. He hasn't moved, and yet he'd still pulled away.

Hannibal leans back on his knees, Will's taste heady upon his tongue, and slides his hand back over Will's thigh.

"No, I suppose you didn't," Hannibal says simply. "How frustrating it must be to not get what you want."

It's bitter; this is not the mindset to be in while courting intimacy. Yet Hannibal cannot deny his own arousal, frustrated as it is. He wants this man fiercely and seeing him like this stokes a very real fire in his veins.

He doesn't even make the conscious decision to. One moment he has a hand on Will's thigh, and the next he's drawn that hand back.

He brings his hand down hard where Will's thigh becomes his buttock, and the sound of an impact is loud in the hotel room.

"I told you not to move," Hannibal says simply, by way of explanation, and somehow the burn to his own palm and the sound of Will's shock only serves to heighten his own arousal. "Please stay still. That shouldn't be too difficult for you."

It's petty. It's bordering on _Will_ , honestly, but he still takes satisfaction in it. He takes perhaps too much satisfaction in it, for he can feel the ache to his own cock. Wetting his lips, he reaches down to the clasp of his pants and undoes the zipper and eases his underwear down just enough to free his cock, though he doesn't touch it. It's not to get off. It's merely to keep his own precome from staining through to the front of his pants. He truly doesn't have another pair to change into seeing as the only other pair had been soaked and dirtied through at the knees the night before.

With his own discomfort eased, Hannibal smooths his hand quietly over the over-warm flesh he'd struck, taking silent pleasure in knowing it likely stings, but that Will's cock is still hanging hard (and wet) between his legs, perhaps more so than it had been before.

He doesn't move his hand, keeping it pressed to the area he'd hit. It had been a gamble, but given Will's newfound discovery of finding himself aroused by humiliation, it seemed an acceptable risk. Still, it's not Hannibal's focus, and so he leans in again, but he pauses before he does anything else, giving Will time enough to wonder. Hannibal Lecter is still a sadist after all, and he apparently does take pleasure in watching Will squirm.

(And despite his bitterness, despite his resentment, there is still a part of him that aches to hear Will fall apart on _his_ terms. This is hardly what Hannibal has imagined, but they are no longer those people anymore. Will Graham isn't the soft, dark, mild creature emerging from the chrysalis that Hannibal had assumed he was. He doesn't _have_ feelings outside of possession and anger, but Hannibal doesn't have that same luxury. There is still an infuriatingly _changed_ part in him that wants to make Will feel good even through his own hurt. It's maddening.)

He spreads Will's cheeks again and leans back in without warning, but this time he takes a different approach. He presses soft kisses from the top of Will's coccyx down the cleft of his ass. He pauses to scrape his teeth over one cheek and then the other, testing the muscle and attempting to ease Will some from his frantic aggression. He'll remain rough if he must, but he _does_ want this to feel good.

Now that the initial shock has passed, he allows himself to partially take his time, and when he finally licks another broad stripe over Will's hole, it's more centered, more focused on the act, on brushing his chin against Will's perineum, on licking, on kissing his hole, on wetly sucking. His hands are tight, firm, keeping Will spread for him so that he can do what he can to make him feel _good_.

* * *

Is it truly frustrating to not be getting what he wants? In a way, yes. A blowjob would be wonderful, more than wonderful really, but Hannibal being unpredictable is thrilling. Will's never had thrilling in the bedroom before, so it seems fitting that Hannibal would bring this new dynamic.

Will says nothing in response, not knowing what to say, not wanting to admit that maybe, just maybe, he wants this awkward situation to continue.

It does.

He's effectively spanked for attempting to pull away, swatted like a misbehaving child. Will makes a sound of surprise. He hadn't expected such an action to be taken against him. There's a tiny spark of outrage that flares up - indignant - but when nothing more comes, Will thinks he's actually _waiting_ in anticipation, that he may actually want another. It hadn't felt especially good, no. His skin stings after the fact even, but it had been something different; it had caused him to blank out and not know what to think or feel about it. He sort of likes being at a loss. (Brought about by Hannibal.)

He's breathing deeply, trying to calm down or pull himself together - Will doesn't really know which one. His hands rub against the comforter, perhaps trying to self-soothe, perhaps as a distraction.

"Okay, okay," Will finally grits out. He won't move. (But if he does, would he be 'punished' with another spanking? That itself isn't such a bad consequence, but he doesn't want this whole thing to _end_ either. They really need to talk about things like this...)

A zipper drags down followed by rustling and Will's eyes snap open. They're not -- they wouldn't be -- surely not yet. He doesn't know a lot, but Will knows there needs to be _some_ prep involved with anal sex - fingering at least. There needs to be lube and he's fairly certain he hadn't seen any out. His heart is racing at the prospect, unsure of what he feels about the idea of actual sex. (He knows it's another inevitability.) He doesn't even know what to think about the ass licking. It's only when Hannibal's hand comes to rest of the previously spanked area that Will thinks he's been jumping the gun. He shudders, pushing against the touch, possibly showing his interest. (He doesn't know what else to do.)

Should he say something? Ask? Beg? He's caught up in indecision until Hannibal seeks to spread him open again. Will makes a pitchy sound, inhaling loudly through his nostrils. He can easily imagine just how debased he looks - he feels it - he's living it: on his knees, legs spread, cock refusing to soften (yes, wet), face and chest pressed against the bed while his ass is on display for Hannibal. He feels a degree of embarrassment to be in this compromising position, but Hannibal has maneuvered him into this scenario - Hannibal wants this. Wants him. (And knowing that feels _so_ _good_.)

So, Will shudders while Hannibal's mouth kisses downward and he tenses as teeth drag against his ass. And then that damnable tongue is being reintroduced, exploring, licking. Lips kiss, Hannibal's mouth sucks and the whole experience is obscene. Different. It all feels like it's bordering on too much, that this area is too sensitive for such an enthusiastic assault. Will's toes are curling, his hands are now roughly gripping at the comforter. He's shaking, sweating, flushed and so fucking turned on.

"I don't... Fuck. You shouldn't..." Apparently forming coherent sentences won't be happening.

Hannibal is eating his ass out. Hannibal, with his dress shirt and pants, pressing in closer than anyone has ever done (but his cock out, so the man must be hard too). Hannibal, with his poise and presence, his fine tastes, tasting him, doing something so perverted. Will's brain is lit up and the psychological arousal is much easier to handle and process.

In between Will's whines and gasps that sound almost pained, he can make out the obscene sounds of licking and sucking. It shouldn't turn him on. A part of him thinks he ought to be disgusted by this whole exchange, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, Will pushes a little _into_ the touch.

* * *

Hannibal is far more observant than Will perhaps knows. He doesn't miss the pause after his hand comes down on Will's ass - though he thinks little of it at the time - and he doesn't miss the way Will's body tenses as he lowers his zipper. This does get his attention, though only because he finds it idly curious. Why should the sound of his zipper trigger tension? Will surely can't believe that Hannibal would be so crass as to push him into sex with no communication or preparation. Yet despite Will's clear nerves, Hannibal doesn't miss that Will doesn't tell him to stop, or tell him to wait. Either he's still stunned from the earlier slap - this whole scenario - or he likes the idea. Given the way Will decides to push back against his hand once Hannibal touches him again, he assumes the latter.

He also notes that Will is pushing back _into_ a touch that should sting, by rights. Curious. Masochism, perhaps? He's definitely hard still, but Will says nothing, his voice instead breaking on a soft sound that sends a lance of arousal straight through Hannibal.

He wets his lips, tasting faint hints of chlorine from the water and the chemicals from the soap, but also something that is likely Will. His sweat, perhaps, for Hannibal can see traces of it already on his skin just from this much. He's stunning like this, his skin flushing, his breathing deeper. When Hannibal leans in and reintroduces Will to the concept, to the sensitivity of his hole, to the sensation of a tongue and lips paying him such close attention, he listens to Will's deep breaths, feels the pointed shift under his hands, and notes the shuddering tension of pleasure in Will's body.

It must be intense, particularly to someone who's likely never experimented beyond a certain point. Hannibal doubts Will has been with particularly adventurous women, and so he takes greater pleasure in knowing how new this sensation must be. His hands grip and squeeze, both spreading Will wide so that he can get closer, and releasing him so that he can stroke his hands over the backs of Will's thighs, the backs of his knees, touching him where few realize nerves are additionally sensitive. He feels every shudder, drinks in every cry, every whine, every gasp, and only when Will begins to push back does Hannibal allow himself a soft, pleased hum and pull back.

"I am doing this because I _want_ to, Will. And because you asked," Hannibal reminds him, voice rough with a simmering arousal of his own. "You're doing well," he adds, because as bitter as he still feels, he is aware of the psychology.

Will is exposed. He's vulnerable. He's been thrust into a situation he can't truly comprehend or control, and while embarrassment and humiliation apparently arouse him, too much sensory input can make him rebound. Hannibal wears the bite high on his throat to prove it. There needs to be a healthy balance (and what a laughable notion _that_ is at present) of embarrassment and praise, though Hannibal still doesn't know how much. He'll learn.

"Exactly as I asked. You're to tell me if you need something, Will."

Given the way he'd pushed back against Hannibal's hand, he does suspect what that might be, but he is not a _good_ man. He has no desire to needlessly reward Will. Not when he's already being rewarded.

Hannibal leans back in, silently calculating he's given Will enough time to calm down from the overwhelming intensity of sensation. Yet when he again presses his tongue to hot skin, he doesn't hold back. He licks at Will's hole with the same fervor he had while sucking him off on the roadway the night before. When he sucks, he doesn't do so by half. He sucks until Will's rim is red and swollen, looking like he _had_ allowed Hannibal to take him. And only when Hannibal deems him needy enough, only when Will is pushing back does he finally press in close and flick his tongue, tensing it and pushing against Will's hole, opening him with quick little movements that he has no doubt Will isn't used to.

It's perfect, a sensory overload for them both, for Hannibal is painfully hard. He aches; Will's heat is so close, so tempting. He _could_ push, but he won't. Not yet. No, this is one encounter he intends to have go _properly_.

* * *

A part of Will would like him to not be quite so loud, to not be giving in and wanton. To not be so obviously pushing back. Women are supposed to be expressive and vocal, not men. This is a belief he's internalized, even if it's not exactly fair or right. He doesn't want to be like this, does he? (He had put on a performance with the gun fully knowing...) But this is worse, this isn't fueled by jealousy and anger. He's trembling and submitting to this. Hannibal may have _put_ him in this position, but Will is choosing to remain in it. All he needs to do is lift his chest off the bed apparently, to not obey this one command...

And yet, Will remains pressed down onto the bed. The position isn't comfortable. It's awkward: his muscles feel strained from tensing and holding his ass up while his torso remains down. Hannibal's hands roam, over his ass, down the backs of his thighs and to his knees. It's a small reprieve, but not very much. There's a dual desire to seek more, to push back against that unrelenting tongue but also to pull away. Hannibal is right - this is completely new to Will - and he's burning up in the sharp sensations that are almost ticklish because of the peculiar sensitivity.

Then Hannibal pulls away. He's told that Hannibal _wants_ to do this, that he’s doing it because Will's _asked_ for it.

He makes a distressed sound in response to _that_ being pointed out. He may understand the implication - the connection between asking for his pussy to be licked - but it hadn't been his intention.

' _You're doing well_...' The praise has Will biting his lip, a different sort of heat sliding through him, trying to vie for more attention than Will wants to give it... But only ' _well_ '? A competitive streak surges through him; he wants to do more than 'well,' but what else can he do? Apparently tell Hannibal if he needs something... It's a straightforward request, but what would he exactly need? He has wants, yes--

Will's thinking is scattered as Hannibal, once again, busies his mouth in the lewd activity. The sucking is intense, yanking out loud cries from Will. He'd been clueless that such a thing could feel so... So what? Good? Intense? Maddening? Will doesn't even know, but he's distantly aware that he must be leaking precome on top of the bedspread. It's odd to be so turned on with no direct attention to his actual cock. But he's hard and hot and panting, desperate to be touched and rocking back a little against Hannibal's tongue.

"Oh, my f-fuck--" Will chokes out when the sensation changes - heightens - as the tip of Hannibal's tongue spears inside him. A strangled groan is half muffled as Will turns his head, resting his sweaty forehead against the comforter. He wants to curl in on himself, retreat into a shell as Hannibal actively seeks to draw him out.

"You're actually..." Will continues, the urgent need to keep talking, to do _something_ is strong. Body tense but shaking, stomach in knots and the knowledge that Hannibal is essentially fucking him with his tongue, has Will not feeling anything like himself. It's highly disconcerting, completely foreign sensations that are strikingly intimate.

"You're _ahhh..._ a pervert, Doctor Lecter. But then what does that make me? Sexual deviant? Whore? He-hedonist?" He's only half paying attention to what's coming out of his mouth. Will's eyes are shut tightly and sweat drips down his nose, traveling a slow journey.

"Please... Hannibal..."

He doesn't want to know the end of the sentence.

* * *

Had he not indicated that Will would not be satisfied until Hannibal made him scream? While the cries are not quite there, Will sounds wanton and lost, and with each cry Hannibal pulls from his throat, it's one more indication that Will's mind is slowly narrowing its focus down onto this. Onto them. Beautiful and brilliant as Will's mind is, Hannibal doesn't want it on anything but their sensations, on anything but his arousal and Hannibal's tongue pushing and licking and tasting Will's skin.

He pauses every once in a while to make Will wonder, to quickly adjust his jaw so as to keep it from locking up, but during each brief pause he does notice more. He notices how Will is trembling so perfectly, how his skin is damp with a thin sheen of sweat. He smells the arousal pouring off of him in waves and a quick glance is all it takes to see how hard Will is, his cock flushed and drooling.

Wet, as Hannibal had said. Given how red he is, given the slight trembling in Will's body, Hannibal knows he could be seconds from coming, or could be only a few minutes. Regardless he has no intention of stopping, particularly when his senses are full of this man.

Hannibal's hands slide roughly up the back of Will's thighs, knocking his legs further apart on purpose so as to spread him wider, and when he leans back in to taste and lick and suck, he can feel Will's hips canting, can feel him pushing back like he isn't certain it's something he wants but like it's something he needs. Hannibal makes a low sound, pleased, and exhales hot against Will's skin just as Will begins to rock back, seeking more of Hannibal's tongue not only licking him but pushing inside.

Yet Hannibal isn't quite expecting Will to start talking. It isn't unpleasant. He merely listens to the soft, desperate babbling of a man so wrapped up in pleasure he's already forgotten himself and Hannibal pushes harder.

He slides both hands up over Will's back, directly after being referred to as a pervert, and he presses his nails against Will's back, dragging them slow and hard over Will's skin. It's not enough to cut, but it will leave welts behind, will leave more sudden sensation for Will to focus on.

Redoubling his efforts, Hannibal's hands are everywhere. He touches over the welts on Will's back, pushes pointedly down between Will's shoulders to remind him to stay still, and he moves both hands back over Will's sides, feeling, touching, _claiming_ everything. He even reaches between Will's legs to brush his hand pointedly over Will's stomach, over the jut of his hips, but he avoids touching Will's cock with more than his thumb - he only strokes over the underside once, gathering precome at the tip to take back. Yet instead of tasting it (though he would gladly do so) Hannibal simply presses his thumb lower, carefully massaging it in slow, deepening circles against Will's perineum.

Will's duress - his pleasure and pleading - is mesmerizing. Hannibal draws back only an inch or so, breathing a little harder himself.

"Please _what_ , Will?" Hannibal asks patiently, his thumb still moving in those steady strokes. He slides it up to stroke the swollen rim of Will's hole only once before moving it back down. "What do you need?"

Moving back in, Hannibal allows himself a softer breath of satisfaction as he again presses his tongue inside, tasting the precome he'd spread.

* * *

Even amidst the cascade of sensations crashing over him, Will can remember Hannibal's words from the elevator - _you would only be satisfied were I to make you scream_. Will feels a sick slide of apprehension. Could it get worse (more intense)? Could he get louder? Could he lose more control? It's already bordering on too much. Will's unsure if he can stand it for much longer. His legs are parted further and Will allows it; he can't even fathom _not_ allowing it, and what does that say about him? (That he's desperate, surely.)

Hannibal's hands come to his back, but it's not to reassure, not to rub or squeeze. No, he drags his nails downward and pain flares up at the scratching. Will hisses, eyes darting underneath closed eyelids, trying to process the new sensation of a lingering burn and how it all plays together with everything else.

It doesn't do enough to distract, it barely takes off the frantic edge of the situation. Hannibal's hands wander more and Will has the strange urge that he wants those hands to keep touching, to run over every inch of skin, for Hannibal to know him and for himself to know the feel of Hannibal's touch. But would tactile familiarity and knowledge be enough? Why would it be? Hannibal should know all of him, surely. Crack his head open like an egg and spill out the contents and have a look. Claw into his chest--

Will's then distracted by spit slowly sliding from his parted cheeks down the back of his legs. It's obscene. _Wet._ (Hannibal's fault.) A ragged whine leaves his lips when it seems like, _finally_ , he might be able to get off as Hannibal reaches between his legs, but only a thumb makes contact with his cock. A frustrated groan follows when it turns out to not be the case and Will opens his eyes as the digit rubs against him in a tantalizing fashion.

"Please, I need-need... to come." The words are gasped out - a plea for release. He sounds far too affected. Agonized, almost.

It probably hasn't even been ten minutes, but the passage of time feels skewed like the clocks he used to scribble down. (' _My name is_ Will _Graham. I have no idea what time it is. I'm in San Antonio, Texas and Hannibal Lecter is fucking my ass with his tongue...'_ )

It's then, with a particular delightful thrust of that tongue, that the scales tip for Will. Panic and doubt overtake pleasure, muscling their way to the forefront and it's suddenly too much, too fast, too wrong, too unknown. Instinctively he tries to reach for a hand, something to hold, but he only has the bunched-up comforter. Will scrambles away from that ravenous mouth and tongue that have only been adding to his mess and undoing him.

No paddle. No anchor. No bedrock. No light out on the water. He's alone and playing in the darkness with Hannibal. Hannibal, who loves him, but despises that love. For as intimate as they've been, it feels in a way like there's an ocean between them, all choppy water and only rocky unwelcoming shores. Will sits up, shaky, upset and on the opposite side of the bed.

"You didn't... Ask or explain or..." He sounds unsure, young. (Vulnerable. He hates it.) Obviously his body enjoyed it, but he'd felt alone and unhinged. Just how much had been _for_ him and not simply Hannibal wanting to indulge and _take_? To demonstrate and showboat even. It hadn't felt like he'd been considered at all.

"You didn't... All you said was to keep my chest down and keep still..."

He grabs onto a pillow, hugging it to his chest and covering himself from Hannibal.

* * *

Hannibal is a hedonist. While it's not _him_ being attended to, while it's not Will's mouth on his skin, this is still a hedonistic pursuit. It's to make Will fall apart, yes, to prove something, to take control, and in a way even to punish Will for his attitude, but that justification has long since edged away into the background.

Hannibal doesn't care about Will's attitude anymore. It's not a part of this. His focus is on Will's skin, on his sounds, his moans and whimpers and the desperate way Will pushes back against him, seeking release that he might be able to achieve just from this alone one day. His focus is therefore not on Will's expression; it can't be. He can only read the desperation in Will's body, the insistent pushes, the ragged gasps, the shaking under his hands. They're all good signs as far as Hannibal knows, and when Will starts to beg, he only makes a smaller satisfied sound and pushes harder.

There is no warning beyond a sudden tension under his hands. He can hear Will moving, can hear him grabbing at the comforter. Hannibal thinks nothing of it; he's just introduced a form of external prostate massage and he merely reads it as pleasure up until the microsecond before Will suddenly pulls away.

A little stunned at the sudden space between them, Hannibal breathes hard, hands coming to rest on the sheets to avoid unbalancing at the sudden lack of Will's body there for stability. He silently notes that not only has Will's chest left the bed, but that he's turned immediately away and back to face him. Hannibal reaches up and carefully wipes the saliva from his chin, but his eyes are still glittering dark with lust and while he's cautious - no more than a man attempting not to startle a deer back into the underbrush - Will is not the only one affected. 

His lips are red and swollen, wet, and his cock has fared no better. Hannibal doesn't immediately reach out and drag Will back in closer (like a part of him _wants_ to do). Hannibal doesn't enjoy being denied, but nor is he a rapist. He instead fights back a very real twist of frustration and simply focuses on trying to compose himself. He _had_ said he'd stop if Will's chest left the bed. Will's chest is no longer against it. Much as he hates it, he stops.

Instead he wets his lip and swallows, his breathing rougher, a little uneven, and he focuses on the matter at hand. Will is physically aroused - though he immediately grabs a pillow and hugs it close to hide himself - but there's distress in his expression. This is unfortunately not the greatest motivator, for Hannibal takes it in greedily but he has the good sense to keep his satisfaction out of his eyes. Will looks about ready to shake apart, to bolt, and as frustrated as he is he needs to understand. So he kneels there, immobile, and listens as Will shakily explains.

Hannibal's first immediate reaction is to sneer. The words are cruel in his throat and he needs to force them back down with a hard bite to his tongue. Instead he waits until they've calmed, until he can say them without the bite. He breathes quietly and lets the breath out slowly.

"Is that not what you prefer?" Hannibal asks, and while the words _had_ been barbed before, they're simply calm, almost curious now. "You didn't ask or explain. You took. I had assumed you wished no communication."

Will _had_ after all simply shoved him to his knees the night before. He'd taken. Even in the shower, while the kissing had been tender, he'd still pushed, still prodded, and when he'd come, he'd immediately shut down and left. That Hannibal has pushed in this manner is simply a reaction to the precedent Will has set.

But as much as he wishes to simply leave Will to his hypocrisy and panic, to let him know how it feels, he doesn't. He can't. As much as the sight of Will's distress pleases him, so too does it _bother_ him. It's mild, just the faintest twist, but it's enough to keep him present. Hannibal wets his lips again and sighs slowly, leaning back on his heels. He makes no move to cover himself; let Will look if he wishes. Let him see the power he has over Hannibal. Perhaps it will help.

"What about it did you dislike, Will?" Hannibal asks quietly. "The sensation itself? The vulnerability? In the event you ever allow me to do this again, I would like to know so as to avoid panicking you. It wasn't my intention."

* * *

Hannibal's disheveled appearance is enough for Will to be unable to tear his eyes away at first. Will takes in the older man's flushed cheeks, his messed up hair, lips slick with saliva and lastly his erect cock pulled out of his slacks. It's a debauched image, one he wants burned into his memory for Hannibal has done something so dirty and intimate and that can't be easily shrugged off or forgotten. Hannibal's eyes look predatory - hungry - and Will can't hold their gaze when he clambers for the pillow.

Hannibal doesn't look especially _pleased by these_ turn off events. Will supposes he's disappointed Hannibal in this, disobeying a... what? A command? An order? His excuses sound half feeble and half formed to his own ears and Hannibal's expression darkens upon hearing Will voice his laments. A rebuttal doesn't come immediately and somehow that makes it all the worse (he's waiting for judgment, but hoping for something else).

Yes, he'd taken while outside in the rain, pushing Hannibal to his knees and pushing his way inside his mouth, but...

"I... Asked for you to shower with me. I asked on the plane too," Will mumbles, but it doesn't sound all that convincing to him as some counter-argument. He sounds pathetic. Their interactions have been, for the most part, steeped in impulses, and him wanting (or expecting) something different likely rings up as hypocritical. Still, Will can't help that he feels overwhelmed and unsettled.

There's a war raging inside, different urges battling out for the direction he should take. Will wants to flee back to the bathroom, shower and rinse off all evidence of his discomfort (again). Another part actually does want to try and explain himself better - try to communicate like to rational adults... And then there's even a side of Will that has the audacity to want to be held by Hannibal, comforted.

Will looks down at his fingers that are slowly rubbing against the pillow and he sighs. His instinct is to run and create a safe space for himself, to distance Hannibal and try and think more clearly. But... He decides to not be smart. Who needs self-preservation anyway?

He puts the pillow back in its place. Will crawls back to Hannibal (because how can he not? This man is all he has now).

"I don't _not_ like it, obviously. My reactions are fairly evident of that," Will begins hesitantly, his voice blatantly hoarse and softer from overuse.

He stops in front of Hannibal, mirroring his position and kneeling. "And I _do_ want communication... Even though I'm not especially good at it." He bites on his bottom lip in consideration.

"You bother me so goddamn much," Will admits suddenly, coming to a decision and reaching out for Hannibal's hands, interlocking their fingers in the space between them. "You're shaking everything up, tearing me apart and I still can't help but want you."

He squeezes Hannibal's hands, his eyes are cast downward, flicking between their exposed cocks.

"Are you going to keep encouraging, keep letting me debase myself?"

* * *

Will _had_ asked in the shower, and on the plane. Hannibal declines answering, not because they aren't valid points but because they don't fit this particular situation. Will had asked to have Hannibal shower with him. He'd asked to be spoken to on the plane. But when anything sexual has transpired between them thus far, it's not been _asked_. Will has simply taken, lunged, bitten, or denied.

He'd simply come to an understandable conclusion. Will asks for intimacy, but he doesn't wish to ask for anything else, and certainly not sex. But the way Will's voice lowers, the way his tone almost bites itself back is enough to draw a small furrow to Hannibal's brow even as he breathes a little harder. It sounds like a protest that Will quickly realizes holds no water compared to Hannibal's assumption, but while Will's argument is weak, it does say something very plainly. Will Graham may be hypocritical, but perhaps he _does_ wish more than simple assumptions and physicality.

Hannibal doesn't move beyond sitting back on his heels. He has no desire to spook Will (for he looks seconds away from shutting down and bolting as he had in the shower the night before). Instead he merely waits after speaking, letting the words drift between them. He's visibly affected just as Will is, perhaps more so. Will Graham is still everywhere, his taste on Hannibal's tongue, the scent of his arousal thick in his senses, the lingering heat and dampness of his skin and sweat under his palms. Hannibal swallows and merely remains still and patient until Will seems to make his decision. Given the way their interactions have gone in the past, he's expecting Will to excuse himself, to retreat back into the bathroom. Yet to his mutual surprise and hope, Will doesn't.

Instead Will carefully shifts the pillow back on the bed. Hannibal keeps his eyes on Will's face though the desire to look beyond there is tempting. Will settles in front of him and - again to Hannibal's surprise - Will decides to actually _speak_. His voice is beautifully hoarse from his cries and Hannibal silently shivers at the knowledge of _why_ that is, but he says nothing.

His eyes are glittering dark with lust but he simply lets Will shift in close to him, mirroring his position. He listens, and despite his irritation, when Will reaches for his hands and laces their fingers together, Hannibal glances down and then allows it, tightening his hold just shy of hurting but tight enough that Will can feel it. If this is what Will needs, he has no desire to deny him.

The questions are not particularly simple to answer. It doesn't stop Hannibal from wetting his lips, drawing in a deeper breath, and trying anyway.

"Yes. I am. I am not your handler, Will. If you wish to debase yourself, I will not stop you from doing so. I will hold you together. I will keep you from shaking apart. But your will is your own." Hannibal draws in another breath, clearly attempting to steady himself. Will's scent is thick and he's all warm, flushed skin.

"You are not the only one compromised. Not the only one to _want_. I resent you for your deception, yet I cannot hate you. I look at you like this and you threaten my control."

Hannibal finally allows himself to look at Will, and while he'd appeared professionally and clinically detached in the shower, the heat in his eyes is evident now. He sweeps his gaze like a physical touch over Will's chest, down the faint muscles of his abdomen, lingering pointedly upon his cock before he casually looks back up to come close to meeting Will's eyes.

"But you didn't answer my question. You wished to stop for a reason. I would like to know what that is. The lack of communication? I merely believed - given your vocalizations - you were enjoying yourself."

* * *

Will doesn't think he's in the state of mind for a rational conversation with Hannibal Lecter (truthfully, it sounds rather daunting). It really is shit timing for them to have anything resembling a heart-to-heart, but he's the one that had pulled away and started complaining. He's made his bed and it's time to lay in it. At the very least, Hannibal doesn't sneer at him or pull his hands away. Will has no idea what he'd do if either of those two responses had been given.

He had thought with an end goal that this game would be simpler, less blurred lines and more clear boundaries. But it's not. It's really not. It feels less like a game and more like a dubious religious movement that Will can't escape. Hannibal Lecter, charismatic and enigmatic in his own way, is infiltrating every aspect of his life, warping his thoughts and desires. (And no matter how Will would like to resist and think otherwise, he'd take the fucking kool aid if Hannibal offered it because a death _together_ was better than one alone.) He's got to be crazy to be letting himself become tangled up in all of this.

Hannibal grips his hands tightly and Will's mind seeks to torment him with the thought of Hannibal forcing him - pinning him down or against something - and it's both a disturbing and arousing notion to be facing. (Disturbing because Hannibal is dangerous and arousing because danger and man have always had a funny relationship with each other.) Will may be younger, but Hannibal is actually in _good shape_ (something he'd neglected to notice until layers of clothing had been shed for their shower). Hannibal, who has lugged around who _knows_ how much 'meat,' took quite good care of himself. Hannibal could overpower him, but would he ever?

Will listens to Hannibal's response, Hannibal insisting that he still has his own free will. Will doesn't know if he really believes that. Hannibal's black feathered wing casts a large shadow over him. His very own fallen angel who delighted in leading him down darker paths, but who promised in dulcet tones that no real harm will befall them whilst they were together. Hannibal is both beautiful and terrible, desire clearly evident in his eyes, in the steadying breaths - Will's not alone in this.

 _'I look at you like this and you threaten my control.'_ And even now, a part of Will wants to push and comment, 'then do it' to Hannibal.

He keeps his mouth shut.

When eyes rake over him, it's so blatant that Will fidgets under that attentive gaze. It's equal parts flattering and distressing to be seen like this. Horny. Wet. Unsure, but desperate. They both know how loud he was being moments before, how he had pushed back.

"It was overwhelming," Will admits and hates how childish he sounds. "Almost bordering on too much. Felt like I might lose myself. I didn't know what to do, or if I wanted it to stop or just ease up." Honesty, but it feels like he's admitting a weakness, exposing more vulnerability to Hannibal, leaning his throat into the knife as it were.

* * *

It takes effort to clear his mind but this is far more important than what they'd been doing. Irritated as Hannibal finds himself with the disruption, this is one of the first times that Will has chosen to genuinely speak with him without bravado and forcefulness. He looks vulnerable and while he's clearly still aroused there's also desperation etched plainly behind his eyes. Were a red furrow suddenly to open up between Will's eyebrows, carved there from the thin blade of a scalpel, Hannibal wouldn't have been surprised.

Will looks shaken. He doesn't look horrified, doesn't look like he hadn't enjoyed himself. If anything, Will Graham looks lost and the more Hannibal sees, the more he understands the significance of Will's desire to reach out for his hands. Does he deserve this? Perhaps not. No more than Hannibal deserves the closeness.

Neither of them are _good_ men. Comparing who is worse will get them nowhere. Jesus and Judas, yes, but _this_ Judas has a reason beyond thirty pieces of silver. Hurt becomes hurt. Fire begets fire. Hannibal had hurt Will and while Will _had_ found a way to hurt him back while in the BSHCI, it had apparently not been an appropriate pound of flesh. This is. The deception. Hannibal forgives, but he doesn't have to like it. Forgiveness does not remove the bitterness. Forgiveness merely means one can move beyond a scenario. It doesn't mean he has to condone it or _like_ it.

So instead Hannibal merely breathes and while the both of them are affected by this - by anger, by uncertainty, by the instability of this new reality, by the impulsiveness, by being _together_ after having been two solitary hunters for so long - he does what he can to focus on Will.

Hannibal half expects Will to dismiss his answer, to speak around it. That Will finally admits that he'd found the situation overwhelming does come as a surprise, but the words immediately call up years of training in Hannibal's mind. He'd become a doctor because he had a knack for figuring out solutions others couldn't see. He'd become a psychiatrist for the same reason. He can solve problems far easier than most. To Hannibal's credit, that Will sounds childish doesn't even register. He merely looks at Will quietly, adapting a shade of the expression he'd always worn during their sessions. Old habits die hard.

"It can be overwhelming the first time," Hannibal says after a calculated silence. He draws in another breath and lets it out slowly, visibly shrugging the residual frustration and tension from his shoulders. If it's a problem he can _fix_ , he's far more amenable.

"In retrospect, assuming a preference for impulsive behavior might have been reckless on my part. You will not lose yourself, Will. You had nothing you _had_ to do except feel. But I would assume your thoughts began to get away from you," Hannibal surmises, freeing one of his hands simply so he can reach back and carefully push his fingers through his hair. His bangs fall back into their normal place and just like that, while the lust in his eyes and flush to his skin is still obvious, he's in control again. Not mentioning it, Hannibal merely reaches back and takes Will's hand again.

The answer is simple, but Hannibal still considers it before even attempting to bring it up. The connotations are not always well taken.

"You likely felt adrift. Began to panic. Did asking me to stop not occur to you?" Hannibal asks, without judgement. "Or perhaps you felt I wouldn't. I am not a rapist, Will. I have no desire to _force_ you if you are unwilling. But perhaps something different would help. Tell me. Are you familiar with the concept of a safeword?"

* * *

That they veer into therapy territory isn't exactly surprising. Will recognizes that Hannibal's expression shifts from something less frustrated to more calm and considering. Blatant desire is pushed back, shelved for later (because they both remain aroused in this stand-off of sorts).

Of course, this isn't like old times, no. They had never held hands (nor had matching erections for that matter), there had been more distance, a divide between them. Had Hannibal ever truly wanted to _help_ him? Or had it been simply a desire to open Will's skull and take a look at the contents, to add his own flavors in, give them a stir all the while waiting for them to marinate with his thoughts? Help was subjective. Likely many of Doctor Lecter's patients could relate.

But he gets the feeling that Hannibal does want to help now, at least more so than before. But now Hannibal has more to lose if Will isn't placated or calmed, if the fire isn't contained. He has a direct share in Will's own health and well-being; Will being unstable and impulsive or reckless is only a risk to them - yes, they're a 'them' now. Maybe this is all they are now - Will volatile and Hannibal trying his best to _manage_ him. (It should piss him off, shouldn't it?)

Eventually the silence is broken and therapy - a possible attempt at understanding - is made. It starts off fairly well (all things considered) and Will does nothing but listen. When Hannibal pulls away a hand, Will's face betrays him, his eyebrows creasing in a flash of distress. It's evident quickly enough that Hannibal simply wants to smooth down his hair, but still, it causes a sliver of unease to remain. His hand is taken again, like nothing ever happened, like it shouldn't be a big deal (why does it bother him? perhaps because he thought Hannibal had been making to pull away entirely).

"I didn't know if I wanted you to stop... maybe just eased up some." Will frowns. Would it have been so difficult to try and explain himself then? To give the necessary instructions? Likely not, but here they are anyway. Maybe he did overreact, but Will can't take it back either way.

"A safeword, huh?" Will repeats back softly. "A random word, discussed beforehand, used to signify that a particular activity must stop. Usually involved in BDSM, fetish or kink play."

Will shivers. Is that where they were heading? He hadn't given much thought to labels, but he supposes that a few of their interactions could be held in that view.

He thinks of his ravenstag's black eyes that still hold a slight luster, always peering at him, imploring him... He thinks of lava cooling. He thinks of a particular unique knife he saw once...

"Obsidian," Will states then clears his throat. "'Obsidian' will be mine. How about you?"

It may go without saying that this is likely for and about him, but Will's not going to let that be the case. If he has to have a safeword, Hannibal will too. Maybe the prick will never use it, but he'll have one.

* * *

They're having this conversation now, whether or not they like it. While Will clearly doesn't feel as stable as he'd like, Hannibal feels far more grounded in this moment than he had merely a minute ago. He is not a man to sit idly by as a problem with an easy solution remains unreachable. He's good at leading conversation, at easing people into realizations they would not have otherwise reached. This is why he'd chosen to become a psychiatrist after everything. That Will had only darted away and failed to indicate the _problem_ had ground on him. Now that he knows the _what_ he can work on fixing it, on engaging Will to do the same.

That Will is familiar with safewords doesn't come as a shock, though it does give Hannibal brief pause. That he can recite the definition back earns Will a small appraising look, Hannibal's chin lifting and his gaze darting quick across Will's features for a few seconds. He says nothing, merely allowing Will to finish, noting his reaction carefully. There's a shiver that slides through Will's skin and while he avoids eye contact for some time, he doesn't look distressed. He's tense in discomfort but he'd been that way before. Will Graham is a Rubiks Cube of uncertainty. Hannibal can see the varying colors, the varying patterns, but he needs a few moments to study the puzzle before taking it in hand.

"Precisely, yes. There are varying forms, but perhaps a total stop is most important in this instance."

Will isn't sure he wanted to stop. Hannibal keeps that in mind. This is not the first time that Will has said as much and Hannibal isn't foolish enough to miss what that means. He'd been overwhelmed and adrift, but he hadn't been terrified, hadn't needed the moment to stop immediately. That's a heartening sign.

As is the fact that Will goes quiet, his lips pulled down into a fetching but thoughtful frown.

Hannibal watches him, careful, ever the wolf attempting to stand its ground against another, uncertain whether or not baring its throat or lifting its tail is the appropriate response. Hannibal waits and watches until Will finally states a word clearly, enunciating it so that there's no mistaking its significance. The choice is somehow fitting. It sounds harsh on Will's lips, not mixing with his latent accent well. His voice is long around the first syllable, the 'o' a long one, oddly enunciated and yet somehow it does its job. Hannibal isn't likely to forget it.

He's already in the process of nodding his understanding when Will follows up his word with another question, and this one is enough to make Hannibal draw back. He blinks, a small furrow pinching his brow. For a moment he considers arguing, or at least gently declining. He won't _need_ a safeword. Yet perhaps this is also a hint. Will wouldn't have asked had he not needed to know, so Hannibal considers what might work in this situation. Something English, something jarring and harsh, something that sounds right. He pauses and then gives Will an odd, unreadable look.

"Petrichor," he answers calmly, and the choice is immediately obvious why. In his accent, the word stands out fittingly and holds significance. "Mine will be 'petrichor'."

He doesn't bother adding that he won't be using it. Instead he simply draws in a slower, deeper breath and nods.

"If there comes a time you wish to stop, Obsidian is what you'll say. If we happen to be intimate and you cannot handle what is happening, 'Obsidian' stops it immediately."

Hannibal considers this situation, considers how it could have been avoided, and it takes him little time to think of something.

"Often during such activities there will be routine check ins. Typically on a green, yellow, red basis. Green means you're fine to continue. Yellow means slow down. Red means stop. This is an option. However if we happen to be doing something where you cannot use your mouth, I would suggest you use your fingers. One-to-five. One is fine. Three is slow down. Five is stop. Two and four are degrees of escalation, a warning, but still mean what the number before them means. Is this... acceptable to you?"

* * *

Will hadn't known the word _petrichor_ before. Hannibal had explained it to him this very morning (the smell of rain). It's a beautiful word, soft, but not terribly so. It sounds distinct and refined still. Pretentious. Like Hannibal.

He can remember the feel of the cold rain falling on heated skin while Hannibal was on his knees. Yes, Will had _taken_. Hannibal's hair had laid slick and wet against his face. Will's own clothes had clung to his body as he held the gun atop Hannibal's head. It's an image Will isn't going to be able to forget. (Stunning, to have a deadly man on his knees. He could have pulled the trigger. He could have ended Hannibal's destructive life right then and there.)

This isn't a conversation Will figured they would ever be having. Then again, he hadn't thought he'd be talking openly about murder and morality with anyone either. But, Hannibal Lecter delighted in discussing and observing the darkness, in drawing it out like poison from wound. Had Will even resisted Hannibal leading him into topics draped in shadows and littered with cobwebs? Likely not. Likely he had been relieved to be able to open up about such things. (Will may not like to admit it, but he knows he's never been innocent. It hadn't taken killing Hobbs to bring that up. Hasn't there always been a darkness haunting him? 'The _other'_. Until Hannibal.)

"Okay. 'Obsidian' for a full stop. 'Green' means go, 'yellow' means slow, 'red' for stop." He pauses, licking his bottom lip at the insinuation of his mouth being too busy to vocalize. A gag perhaps? Hannibal's cock stuffed down his throat? What trouble would they all get into? What fun was to be had?

"And the fingers if my mouth is... occupied. Seems simple enough."

Was it though? Hannibal's being entirely practical and while Will does appreciate having clearly laid out guidelines, he's been too vulnerable. Too exposed. An idea hits him, like the first drop of rain - sudden and startling. He swallows and this time it's Will who pulls his hands away from Hannibal's. He brings one up to his face, tip of his index finger stroking down the freshly scabbed cut Hannibal had gifted him last night.

"You're a sadist, right?" Will's eyes narrow, appraising, and the corners of his mouth twitch in a predatory grin. "But, it's never been sexual. Not until me." This is a gamble, but it's thrilling. (Yes, he does like pushing.) This is him playing the game. Upping the ante. He can't be predictable; they both have to remain interesting. His other hand comes to wrap around his cock and he strokes slowly.

"Re-open it. Let's make sure it scars. We have safewords, so show me. Show me who you are."

* * *

Will Graham is a curious, unpredictable creature. He's a perpetual motion machine, never still, never predictable. Just when Hannibal believes he knows where Will plans on being at any given moment, he's already vanished, already somewhere entirely different. His pendulum swings wild, back and forth, never losing inertia regardless of the thickness of the atmosphere around him.

So as Hannibal looks at him and listens to Will confirm the idea, he simply nods, satisfied that Will has heard and understood. Hannibal plans on allowing the words to sink in, allowing Will the time he needs to mull them over before doing anything else. He already has plans to calmly ask Will what he wants now, where he would like to go from here.

Ideally it would be a return to what they had been doing before. He cares little whether or not it's a return to the _exact_ situation, but the urge to bring Will pleasure has not faded. He wishes to see him fall apart properly, not forcing and pushing, and not stealing his pleasure against Hannibal's thigh, as surprised as Hannibal had been. He wishes to have Will fall apart against him, wishes to hear his cries properly. Wishes to be the cause of them.

So when Will's expression suddenly shifts, Hannibal pauses. There's a flicker of something behind Will's eyes that Hannibal cannot properly predict. As he looks, Will slowly withdraws his hands and Hannibal allows it, curious despite his caution. He cants his head to the side ever so slightly, a nearly avian movement, and glances from Will's hands to his eyes, then to the cut on Will's cheek that his finger has found. The question is very leading, but clearly rhetorical. Hannibal's brow pinches ever so slightly.

"Yes," he replies anyway, and watches as Will's smile turns into a grin that settles something in Hannibal's chest. He wets his lips at the sight of it. It reminds him of the look Will had before shoving him to his knees. A return to sadism then?

Will is right. It's never been sexual until Will. Hannibal has never looked at his sadism as a fetish. He gets nothing sexually stimulating out of watching others in pain. He merely feels powerful, finds that people are more interesting when they're in pain. But with Will Graham, things are.. different. He watches the way Will touches his face, and when Will's free hand drops to his cock, Hannibal draws in a small breath. A return to _some_ level of sex then, though he cannot tell what Will intends just yet.

He's instead given an order: _Show me who you are_. Hannibal goes very silent and very still. For a moment he merely looks at Will.

Then he makes his decision and he moves.

His hand lifts to Will's cheek and he carefully eases Will's hand away. Hannibal cups his jaw almost tenderly, his thumb pressing against the wound to stroke the rough edges of the scab. He's gentle, but the slightly quicker beat of his pulse betrays him as he leans in. Yet instead of latching his teeth onto Will's skin, instead of biting the wound open, Hannibal uses the hand on Will's jaw to steady him as he leans in and catches Will's lips in a kiss that is only gentle for a fraction of a second.

Then Hannibal pushes - literally - and presses Will onto his back on the bed, nipping at Will's lip hard enough for him to part them so that he can lick deeply into his mouth. He keeps himself braced above Will, knees spread on either side of his hips. He kisses hungrily, a break from the norm, a reminder just _how_ into eating Will out he'd been before. Yet despite it, he presses the nail of his thumb to the scab on Will's cheek and with a pointed press, he digs his nail in hard and swipes it down. Under his thumb, the scab tears off and Hannibal digs in again, harder, until blood stains his thumb.

* * *

To be seen and known is both a relief and uncomfortable. They've both known that they're the outsider, wading through people, faking interactions, wearing their own version of people suits - Hannibal more effectively than Will, naturally, but now they regard each other with more honesty. It's not a safe or careful honesty, no. It's brutal and unforgiving. They're no longer sitting across from each other and weaving words and posing questions that don't really _matter._ No more fanciful bullshit. The masks rip off (mostly, although Will's last mask is like a second layer of skin - can he even find the edges to peel it off?). It's titillating.

If Hannibal were to ask what he wanted, Will's unsure if he would have a clear answer for him. On some base level he wants to get off. His body illustrates that need quite plainly. Still, he has many potential desires that vie for consideration. This seems to be par for the course. However, pushing Hannibal, getting him to react, rousing him into action wins the competition. Unwise? Probably. Also par for the course.

Shining a light back on sadism - although potentially dangerous - is something that interests Will. In forcing Hannibal to his knees, forcing Hannibal to suck him off and biting Hannibal, he's let his fingers skim across the surface. It’s an alluring prospect, one that, until Hannibal, he's only felt by swimming in the minds of killers. Now that it's his own mind, it's vastly different. It's intimate, it's intense. He feels the sick pull of interest, the attraction to something ghastly, and it's far too easy to plunge his hand into the icy water and grasp for _something._

So, he eggs Hannibal on. Provokes, but Hannibal doesn't do anything, a considering look shot his way while the silence settles between them. And then, Hannibal simply moves the hand away from his face, choosing to not re-open the cut, but to cup Will's face in a bizarre show of tenderness.

Will's waiting for the predator, for the passion he's only glimpsed and felt. A thumb strokes downward over the scab and it tingles. Then a mouth on his - and Will remembers where that mouth just has been - but before he can think to pull away, the kiss turns forceful. Will is pushed back down on the bed and he is given no choice in opening his mouth because a hard bite to his bottom lip comes and he gasps at the sharpness of it.

The knowledge of where and what Hannibal's mouth had been doing is actually worse than the taste, but Will has invited this, so he kisses back, not afraid to use teeth and nip in return. Maybe this is the equivalent of snarling dogs regarding each other warily. His hands grip tightly on Hannibal's arms, but it's a reminder that Hannibal is still very much clothed. Hannibal does, finally, scrape the scab off and Will flinches as it pulls against healing skin. It only seems appropriate. (He feels brutalized on the inside, fractured and hastily pieced back together so why not have his outside reflect this?) Will pulls away, gasping.

"C'mon, take your clothes off. We can't get you dirty, now can we?" He yanks a little at the shirt collar impatiently. "'Cause I know you want to make me messy."

Truthfully, he wants to feel Hannibal against him. Maybe to have a proper roll around on the bed? He doesn't know.

* * *

Hannibal knows precisely where his mouth has been. The urge to lean in and simply _bite_ at the scab had been nearly overwhelming for a moment but regardless of how clean Will is, introducing anything remotely dangerous into an open wound isn't something he's willing to do. Instead Hannibal kisses him, and he pushes almost immediately. Under him, Will tenses but no protest comes.

Hannibal glances at his hands to make sure but there are no fingers being held up and Will makes no effort to pull away, so while Will might not enjoy the thought (and secretly Hannibal wishes to insist that if _he_ can put his mouth to Will's hole, surely Will can stand kissing him) he does enjoy the act. Hannibal's teeth catch his lip, Will gasps low, and the kiss deepens immediately.

Truthfully Hannibal finds himself surprised when Will kisses back. He feels teeth against his lips, feels the sharpness of Will's canines along his tongue and yet he pushes anyway, uncaring over the simple danger. Having Will under him, feeling his heat, hearing his low sounds and feeling him squirm rekindles the mood from earlier almost immediately. Save instead of pushing to _prove_ something, this time he pushes for Will. Oh, his ego plays a part. He kisses to prove his skill, his sadism, but beyond that, he kisses because he fully intends to see Will Graham collapse, to see him shake apart. He _takes_ with the kiss and Will gives in gladly, his hands bruising on Hannibal's arms but even that too-tight-ache feels good.

When Will draws back with a gasp, Hannibal immediately tries chase his lips. This man is an addiction. He feels as starved as he does addicted. Kissing Will is thrilling and agonizing in equal measure. Thrilling because it's something Hannibal has ached for and agonizing because of the _way_ he's caught him. In that moment he's not certain where his control has gone, for he has no desire to stop kissing Will, to stop feeling the slight tremble of his lips, the punctuation of each hot breath against his mouth. But before he can kiss Will again, he's given a near-command and Will's hands slide up to his shirt collar. It's enough to get his attention, enough to draw a small displeased sound from his throat.

"Will," he chides, reaching up to catch Will's hand before he can impatiently send a button flying across the room.

He makes his decision quickly. Much as he enjoys the power imbalance of having Will naked under him while still fully clothed, the desire to feel Will against his skin far outshines that. Hannibal draws back with a rougher breath and nods.

"Yes. I do."

It's said low with promise.

Leaving Will as he is, Hannibal sits back on his heels and reaches up. He makes quick work of his tie and undoes the buttons on his vest, followed quickly by the buttons on his shirt. Normally he'd take his time in this but he suspects that Will is in the mood to reach and grab and _pull_ if he doesn't get his way quickly enough. Hannibal still takes the time needed to stand and carefully hang up his vest and fold his shirt and tie before slipping out of his slacks and underwear to do the same. As he had last night in the shower, he shows no shame in his nudity, pausing only to remove his socks before he climbs back up onto the bed and reclaims his earlier position.

While the playing field has been equalized, while Hannibal is still just a man under his clothes, there's clear power in his movements. Without clothes to mess up, he presses Will down against the bed again and brings their hips together blatantly, leaning in to scrape a biting kiss just under Will's jaw, just under the mark.

"What do you want, Will?" Hannibal breathes, reaching down for one of Will's hands so that he can direct it onto his back, encouraging. He has no desire to keep Will from touching him. "Tell me."

* * *

It's almost laughable how quick desire lights up again for the both of them. Underneath Hannibal, being kissed by Hannibal, cut reopened and bleeding, Will breathes harshly through his nostrils. He wants and gives in equal measure, no hesitancy in his movements. His earlier apprehension is shoved away, replaced with selfish lust that clouds his reason. It's heady and empowering and he's sampling what he'd experienced earlier on the road, but now he's not alone in it.

Will would have likely pulled and wrecked Hannibal's shirt or vest. He's at that point of brazen recklessness and neediness. Will's actually surprised he managed his request at all. Hannibal agrees and deftly undresses himself.

Will makes no attempt to not let it be known that he's watching. Piece by piece Hannibal exposes himself and Will has to snicker at the prim display of Hannibal folding each article. Will may like his drawers and closet compulsively organized, but that's after they've been washed; he's fine with stripping and discarding his clothes as he sees fit. At least that's what he's always done at home. Who knew what would be the norm as his life conjoined with Hannibal's.

Feeling like he ought to say something, Will comments, "I can feel your spit in between me, in between my ass. Such a pervert, Hannibal."

He has the distinct impression that being called a pervert irritates Hannibal on some level and the unimpressed look sent his way affirms this. (It's a reward.)

But Hannibal comes back, naked now, and settles on top once more. Skin against skin and Will revels in Hannibal's solid weight on top of him. He's sweaty and unrepentant as he squirms against Hannibal. He wants to feel everything, be touched everywhere, to burn up in the dual desire of wanting to give in and wanting to take. Hannibal asks what he wants and Will ignores it. Prompted to touch and Will wastes no time in feeling up the skin there, fingernails scraping up a light trail along Hannibal's back.

He's frenzied. Desperate. His other hand fists Hannibal's hair and yanks him into another kiss, Hannibal's 'dirty' mouth be damned. They kiss again and Will sucks on Hannibal's bottom lip before biting on it, not hard enough to to make it bleed, but hard enough to hurt. Will thrusts greedily upward, his cock seeking any contact and friction. Something about Hannibal being polite pisses Will right off.

So he does something he'd never think he'd do: he slaps Hannibal. Given that he's on his back, Will doesn't have much room to get any real force behind it, but there's a satisfying connect with Hannibal's cheek and his hand (it reminds Will of the spank... Even Steven here, too.)

"I told you. Show me who you are," Will hisses. "Take. Take what you want."

* * *

Though he doesn't say so out loud, Will is correct. Hannibal doesn't enjoy being called a pervert. Perhaps the word is meant to indicate his desire for things not often mentioned, but to Hannibal a pervert is someone _perverse_ , with far more taboo kinks than simply feeling Will's body clench around his tongue. Aware of the language barrier there (though taking amusement in the fact that the native speaker uses his own language so freely) Hannibal merely sends Will an unimpressed look and then climbs back on top of Will, effortlessly wrestling control back.

He directs Will's hands to his back and feels Will's nails gently press against his skin, too soft and not enough but still good because it's something Will is doing on his own. He silently delights in Will's squirming, in how desperate Will quickly becomes with Hannibal's hips so close, with skin pressing against skin, with his need so evident.

While Will's touch had been gentle, it soon sharpens. Hannibal hums his pleasure over it. Fingers curl tight in his hair and Hannibal shivers with a bitten-off sound that finds itself even more muffled by the biting kiss Will pulls him into. It's graceless and passion and needy and so unlike their other kisses that Hannibal allows himself to distantly bask in it. Will's lips are rough, his tongue quick, his teeth sharp. He sucks hard enough to redden Hannibal's lips and as Hannibal kisses back with equal fervor, he bites hard enough to almost break the skin. Hannibal makes a sound, something bordering on a growl, and leans back just enough to feel the tug. The both of them are escalating.

It's because of that and that alone that Will survives what he does. His teeth are sharp on Hannibal's lip and then he draws away. Hannibal has a moment to enjoy the grind of Will's hips before there's movement out of the corner of his eye and he tenses a second too late. The sting on his cheek is mild compared to the sound; Will hadn't had a lot of momentum behind the swing, but that he has _slapped_ Hannibal across the face takes a moment to fully register. The sting fades into a burn as Will speaks, as his voice sounds breathless and raw, hissed.

Hannibal slowly looks back at him, one cheek ruddy, his eyes walking the line between cold and contemplative.

Hannibal can count on one hand the number of people who have dared slap him. He can count only one still alive, and Bella is fading fast.

Yet he doesn't reach for Will's throat, doesn't find himself mulling over ways to make him pay. Instead he remembers the way his own palm had connected with Will's ass and wonders idly if this, too, is an effort to equalize their encounter. The burn is hot and prickles sensation through his skin and Hannibal merely tongues at the inside of his cheek for a moment to ascertain that nothing has been injured before making his decision.

"You may come to regret that, Will," he says, his voice deceptively quiet and leaving it uncertain whether he's talking about the instructions or the slap.

Then he's gone. Hannibal leans back on his knees and his hand finds Will's hip again. Despite the fact he's done it before, it takes him almost no effort to once again force Will onto his stomach. He lifts those hips again, though not as much, just enough to leave him open. Hannibal knocks his legs uncomfortably wide and reaches down to take hold of Will's cock. He gives him two strokes, achingly slow as he speaks.

"I'm going to use my tongue again," he says with a curl of a rougher sound hidden in his tone, "and I'm not going to stop until you come. I will not touch you, you're not permitted to touch yourself. You come from this." There is no alternative.

Hannibal slides his hand gently down Will's back, over the curve of his ass, and - simply because even he can be petty by times - Hannibal draws his hand back and brings it down against Will's ass, exactly where he had before.

The sound rings out and then he leans in, gripping Will's cheeks in both hands and spreading him wide as he leans back in and licks hotly over Will's hole.

* * *

It can't be smart to slap Hannibal, but it _is_ exciting. Will doesn't know of anyone else having done such a thing to Hannibal (although he's sure the good doctor likely _deserves_ it from others). The _look_ he's gifted with is certainly something else. Will can see the cogs turning, Hannibal working through what his next move with be. All Will can do is wait, eyes glinting, feeling a certain dangerous smugness for doing such a _rude_ thing and knowing he'll survive. It may be feasible to eat the rude, but he's cloaked in Hannibal's sentiment, protected. Immune - at least when it comes to not ending up as a lavish meal. Oh, how Hannibal must be irked over such a thing. _Love_. Hannibal is held back, muzzled, all because of love.

Will can't help but be mesmerized by the redness to Hannibal's cheek, knowing that he's the one who caused it. He doesn't get too much time to contemplate the image as Hannibal sees fit to what, warn him? Threaten him? Not even Will is sure, nor is he certain as to what Hannibal's words pertain to: Will's action, his statement or both, but he'll find out.

He finds out soon enough, Hannibal leaning away and Will is reaching out for him, but he's, yet again, roughly turned over onto his stomach and his hips lifted off. Will looks over his shoulder, a somewhat manic grin on his face as Hannibal _takes_ , spreading Will's legs open, finally touching his cock and explains, '... _and I'm not going to stop until you come_.'

This has Will trembling, both in anticipation and trepidation, because he doesn't know if he _can_ come from this. Guess they'll find out. A sudden spank brings out a surprised yelp from Will, the spot now warmer and more tender from the repeated hit. He exhales half a chuckle before it changes into an antsy whine as Hannibal spreads him open and _licks_.

"You, uh, you just couldn't resist, could you?" Will asks, but doesn't wait or expect an answer. His voice sounds tight and of a higher pitch and he can't capture the taunting tone of his words. "You could have made me blow you, jerk you off, but - ahh - you'd rather have your face in my ass. What does that say about you, I-I wonder?"

The answer isn't important.

* * *

Hannibal wonders only for a moment if perhaps he is setting an improper precedent. Slapping is not something he has any plans to tolerate in the future, but the way Will's eyes darken, the way he looks absolutely thrilled to have done it makes him wonder, makes him second-guess. It's something to discuss later perhaps. Limits are important, and Hannibal needs to know where certain lines are before he delves in too deep. Slapping may be a limit, or it may be situation. Not even he is certain in that moment as he flips Will onto his stomach, aware of the burning to his cheek, and delves back in to pick up where he'd been forced to leave off.

He doesn't miss Will's near-manic grin though. He doesn't miss the soft tremble in his limbs, nor does he miss the yelp of surprise that Will lets out in regards to the blow from Hannibal's hand. It hadn't been aimed to hurt and Hannibal has the makings of an answer. Will enjoys this. His yelp, while sharp with surprise, is pleasured, with a breathy hint to it that Hannibal files away for later. He wishes to know why. Is it the pain or is it the anticipation, the unpredictability, or is it the lingering burn? Were Hannibal to guess, he'd assume the latter. The burn to his cheek is a reminder of Will's recklessness but it's also a reminder of _why_ he's doing this. Of what Will has earned.

The whine Will lets out when Hannibal's tongue again finds his hole is shuddering and small and perfect. Hannibal files it away as he laps blatantly between Will's cheeks, tracing the tight clench of his hole with quick movements of his tongue before licking broadly over it. It's not unlike giving a woman pleasure. Focused attention, broad strokes to decrease sensitivity, and refocusing, allowing oneself to creatively think of ways to bring them apart. This is no different, and Hannibal allows himself a low sound as he spreads Will wide and _takes_.

Yet Will's words do catch his attention. They're gasped and tight, desperate in obvious ways, and they clearly require no answer. Hannibal's mind is clear, though, and his blood is pumping hot in his veins, spurred on by sex, yes, but also by the blatant burn to his cheek and the anger surrounding it. Hannibal pauses just for long enough to make Will wonder, then his hand comes down on the back of Will's thigh this time, harder than before.

"That I enjoy the idea of controlling your pleasure," Hannibal replies lowly, breathless. "That I find pleasure in your distress. And that I enjoy the idea of you falling apart under me. I did say you wouldn't be satisfied until I made you scream," he says, a soft reminder that holds teeth.

Hannibal lets the words sink in only for a moment longer before moving back in again. He licks in and - moving both hands to spread Will properly - he leans in and buries his face against Will's skin, tensing and pointing his tongue as he presses it inside once more, shallow at first, then deeper.

* * *

As Hannibal's skilled tongue makes contact with hypersensitive skin, the feeling is still one Will finds agonizing and alluring all at once. It's strange and intense, dominating all other past experiences. The sensation coupled with both the accompanying wet sounds from Hannibal and the knowledge of what Hannibal is doing makes Will burn up. His hands frantically move to clutch onto a pillow and drag it down so he can somewhat hide his head in its softness as he grasps onto it tightly, knuckles white.

He can't quite differentiate between the varying ministrations, clueless to what exactly Hannibal is doing. Certain touches drag out ragged breaths while others have him shaking and then tensing and moaning. His pulse pounds, his chest expands and still he feels lightheaded, like he's not getting enough oxygen into his body.

Without warning, Will is granted a reprieve he's unsure he wants. Will almost pulls his head up from the pillow to what, ask for more? Attempt to goad Hannibal into something else? As Hannibal's hand slaps the back of his thigh, he does nothing except flinch and give a half muffled cry. Will breathes in deeply, processing the sting and wanting more. The pain helps him focus, but the focus doesn't really last that long as Hannibal catches him off guard with his insufferable answer.

Controlling his pleasure.... Pleasure in his distress... Is this what _taking_ involves for Hannibal? Will had thought it would have been more selfish, less well, focused on _him,_ but he'd been shortsighted apparently in this assumption.

Before he can think on it, Hannibal is parting him further and fucking into him with his tongue. Will shudders, eyes tightly shut. He's completely hard and aches for his cock to be touched - for something familiar - but he remembers Hannibal's words. The intrusion is unrelenting and his body simply takes it, his channel loosening from that persistent tongue. He pushes back into it, seeking.... Needing...

But then it's too much of something and he's suddenly overwhelmed and crying out, "Yellow. Yellow."

To his amazement, Hannibal stops.

"I don't know if I can... It's too much. I-I want to..." Will's floundering and he would loathe the uncertainty in his voice if his body wasn't buzzing with arousal and overstimulation.

* * *

Is it truly so surprising that Hannibal 'taking' involves this? Seeing Will spread and open, listening to the hitched, telling sounds of each and every cry? He has wanted this man for months - a rarity in his life - and now he's not only been given permission but he's also been instructed to _take_. Hannibal can't see Will's shock but he can feel it in the way his body trembles, in the shivering under him, in the loud, wild sounds Will makes when Hannibal licks in deep and pushes. Hannibal can feel the strain in his jaw, knows he'll need to take some time after to massage the tension from it, but it's well worth it. He's surrounded by Will Graham, his taste, his scent, his sounds, his touch.

Hannibal groans softly in the back of his throat as he presses closer, as Will's sounds sharpen and his need becomes more obvious. Whenever Hannibal draws back enough, he can see Will's leaking cock, knows that he's hard and aching and that he _wants_ and yet he's only being given what Hannibal chooses to give him.

He's beautiful in his distress, his body shaking, his hands clenching, and when Will begins to press desperately back into him, Hannibal can tell that it won't take much more. If Will can fight past his uncertainty, fight past the overwhelming sensation and focus on his own pleasure, he'll come and come hard. Hannibal aches to hear it, to feel Will's muscles twitch around him. With every thrust of his tongue, he finds himself hot at the idea of one day experiencing Will's heat wrapped around him, hearing his cries for an entirely different reason.

He's caught up in the thought, in the moment. Yet when Will suddenly cries out and begins to shake, the word _yellow_ escaping, Hannibal immediately draws his tongue back, swallows a few times, and licks instead, pulling back but not stopping immediately.

Instead he gradually tapers back into the realm of safety, kissing hot skin, licking with broad swipes of his tongue, and slowly kissing his way up to the first gentle rise of Will's spine. Only then does Hannibal press his cheek there, breathing in the scent of Will's sweat like he'd like nothing more than to bury himself in the scent.

Will's desperate. He's close. But he's also clearly not used to overstimulation like this. Hannibal takes a moment to fight past the wave of want - his desire to push, to _see_ Will fall apart in distress - and he presses a soft kiss to Will's lower back, then both his hands slowly move up over Will's thighs. Instead of scratching as he had before, his hands trail up over Will's ass, over his back, simply touching and grounding and showing Will just how sensitive his skin is given that he's so close.

"I know," he soothes. Despite his sadism, his tone is softer, encouraging. He may be curious how Will Graham looks when broken open, but that is a risk Hannibal will never take. He's seen him fall apart before. He has no desire to truly _hurt_ Will.

"It's overwhelming. But you _can_. I know you can. You'll come from this for me," Hannibal adds, and he slides his hands around to gently trail over Will's stomach, over the tight, trembling muscles.

"What do you need from me?" Hannibal asks then. "You aren't permitted to touch yourself, and nor will I. But I can touch you elsewhere. What do you need, Will?"

He presses a kiss higher, to the middle of Will's back and then pauses, remembering the plane.

"Would you like my hand to hold?" he offers, reaching a hand out curiously. "Just to ground you. You _can_ do this. You simply need to give yourself permission. Tell me when you wish to continue."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Complex and violent as their coming together has been, Hannibal still prefers Will by his side, even if he is a twisted amalgamation of mutual betrayal. Perhaps one day their shattered edges will find one another and reform together, smooth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoho, half a year later, and we get an update and one chapter closer to the end! Dx

The exclamation of 'yellow' brings forth a cessation of the deliberate tongue fucking, but Hannibal doesn't stop completely. Obsidian or Red meant stop, after all. Instead, he's licked, kissed, and that perverted mouth travels up to the base of his spine. Will sucks in deep breaths, trying to find some semblance of control. He's not particularly successful. He can both hear and feel Hannibal take a telling inhale. Will remembers Hannibal smelling him in his office. He'd been incredulous at the time. Now? Now it seems both primal and fitting. If Hannibal is going to get him sweaty and yes, _wet_ \- let Hannibal bask in it, let it linger in Hannibal's nostrils.

The touch that follows is gentle - over his ass, down his thighs - and Will says nothing. No egging on, no pleading. He's never been in this type of situation before - extremely aroused, but over sensitive to touch. And... It's never been ass stuff, either. He's close to asking (begging) Hannibal to just touch him normally, to jerk him off or let Will rub against him, when Hannibal finally speaks, his words calming and attempting to mollify Will's anxiety.

 _'But you_ can _. I know you can. You'll come from this for me._ '

Will groans. It shouldn't be so damn hot that Hannibal is confident in this (in his own skills or in Will?). Hannibal is demanding even. It is arousing though and Will pushes into the light touch to his stomach - so close to his cock - but, of course nothing comes of it. The rules are laid out again. He can't touch himself nor will Hannibal. Will fidgets, lifting one knee off the bed and then the other. He wiggles his toes. He lolls his neck from one side to the other. He has no answer for Hannibal. He has no other need other than to get off, but he doesn't know what would help that--

' _Would you like to hold my hand?'_ He'd held Hannibal's hand on the flight yes, but he'd initiated that touch to get Caroline off his back...

Hannibal reaches out this time and Will surprises himself by letting go of the pillow and grasping onto it. For grounding purposes a hand would work better than a pillow. (That's what he tells himself.)

"Okay," Will murmurs. "Okay. I'm ready." He closes his eyes and tries to settle down and, yes, give himself permission to let go and give into this.

(He does feel slightly better holding Hannibal's hand now.)

* * *

The tension in Will's body may as well be a dance. Hannibal watches as he squirms, as he shifts from knee to knee, as his hips roll and he presses close to a hand on his stomach that doesn't move down. Hannibal wets his lips as he looks down at Will, at the flush that seems to have spread down over his shoulders, at the sweat pooling against his lower back.

How would Will respond if one day Hannibal merely focused on teasing him? How would he react to not being touched save for the bare minimum? How aroused would he allow himself to get before crying out ' _yellow_ ' in sudden need? Before begging?

It's a thought Hannibal seriously considers in that moment. Yet as he listens to Will's labored breathing and watches him slowly attempt to piece himself back together, he tucks the thought away for later. He has no need to live in the future when the present moment is so thrilling.

Even if Will's silence is all-encompassing, even if he says nothing in response, Hannibal still takes pleasure in the sight of him. His distress is beautiful. That he has no idea what to do is thrilling. Hannibal can feel the trembling under his hands, knows that Will is aching to be touched and yet he doesn't ask for it. Instead he lets Hannibal soothe, lets him ask what Will needs.

He's only half-expecting Will to take his hand when he offers it. Will had clung to him on the plane, delighted in the proximity, but it had likely been for a specific purpose. So when Will does take his hand and grasps it, Hannibal hesitates and then rubs his cheek lightly against Will's lower back. He hasn't had time to shave since that morning and he knows Will can feel the roughness of his stubble. It's another way to ground Will in the moment, another way to soothe him, and it must help for it doesn't take Will long to calm down enough to allow Hannibal to continue. Wetting his lips, Hannibal squeezes Will's hand only once.

"Good. You can do this, Will."

Perhaps the praise is misplaced. Perhaps it doesn't help. Hannibal doesn't care. He enjoys giving it, and while he is down a hand now, it doesn't stop him as he kisses his way down Will's back. Instead of delving right back at the same intensity, Hannibal takes his time.

He's gentle as his lips trail down, and he takes an indulgent moment to suck a bruise against one of Will's cheeks, taking silent pleasure in the knowledge that he'll feel it when he sits down. When he finally spreads Will open again and leans in, it's a little awkward without his second hand but Hannibal pays it no mind. His thumb rubs against the inside of Will's wrist as he parts his lips and licks long and hot over Will's hole.

This time he makes a point of taking his time. Will is still sensitive and Hannibal can feel the need thrumming through him. He works his way up slowly, varying between licks and kisses and soft scrapes of teeth and gentle suction when Will least expects it simply so Will's focus is entirely on him.

Minutes have passed by the time Hannibal arrives the point he'd reached before. Will's hole is swollen under his lips, undoubtedly sensitive, and he hums a soft note of satisfaction as he squeezes Will's hand and then moves in closer, pressing his tongue inside. He can feel Will's need, can feel him shaking, and the sounds falling from Will's lips are sweet with pleasure and an underlying distress. He doesn't think he can do this, but Hannibal knows he can.

He simply pushes harder and bit by bit, loses a thread of his own control. The closer he can hear Will getting, the more he wishes to push him over that edge - and finally Hannibal simply closes his eyes and drops all pretense.

He thrusts and flexes his tongue, feeling Will's heat, feeling him loosen around him, feeling him push back desperately. Soft, hungry sounds escape his throat as he takes Will in this way, delighting in Will's sensitivity as he focuses on trying to get Will to come, to clench around his tongue and cry out and surprise even himself with what he's truly capable of.

* * *

Hannibal seems confident that he can do this, a reassuring squeeze given to his hand along with praise, and Will closes his eyes, wanting to block out unnecessary stimulation. He's never been one to trust easily and trusting Hannibal should be ludicrous given their history, but he trusts now. All of this may be new, overwhelming and even confusing, but Will's going to try and ride it out. They've set out safewords and Hannibal has already shown himself capable in following, so Will's oddly hopeful that this could actually work...

Will breathes out slowly as Hannibal kisses his way back... He flinches at the unexpected suction to one of his ass cheeks. He's unsure if it technically counts as a hickie, but it certainly seems like that is Hannibal's intention. A part of Will wants to rib Hannibal on it, but he quashes that petty urge. He needs to stay focused.

Soon enough Hannibal returns to his previous activity, but there's nothing hurried or frenzied in the way his tongue travels over heated wet skin. Will is taking deep breaths, trying to simply enjoy the varying sensations that Hannibal's mouth brings. He shakes when he feels the barest hint of teeth and moans at the gentle sucking to his hole. Every time he feels Hannibal's tongue pass over, Will expects it to flick inside, but Hannibal simply continues on working Will up slowly.

By the time Will faintly registers another squeeze to his hand, he's started moaning out Hannibal's name. (This might bother him later.) Will's own sweaty grip intensifies when Hannibal finally does push his tongue back in. There's no hesitation from Will. He rocks back against it, wanting deeper, wanting more. Will's too far gone, too loud to hear that Hannibal has actually lost himself to this task as well.

Heat rises, he squirms and the pleasure builds. They're both hedonists in this moment, both selfish and hungry, hands clasped and connected intimately. Will is cursing now, a litany of profanity with Hannibal's name interspersed in it. Gone is any doubt concerning if he can come from this. Will gives himself over to Hannibal's tongue and the current consuming feelings.

"So fucking good, oh my god... Don't-don't stop--"

Hannibal doesn't.

His tongue fucks into Will with single-minded focus. Will can't help but still be amazed that a man like Hannibal would have his face buried in an ass and do such a thing, but it continues. When Will comes, it takes him by surprise. His dick twitches, he comes on his belly and some of it drips onto the bed underneath. Will shudders and scrambles away from Hannibal's face, not able to stand anymore stimulation. He's gasping from shock and pleasure as wide eyes regard Hannibal.

* * *

Hannibal has no intention of stopping, not unless Will makes him. Not unless the safeword falls from Will's lips, which it doesn't seem ready to do. The only words that fall from Will's lips in that moment are soft, heartfelt curses and moans of Hannibal's name. How long has he ached to hear Will's voice breaking over his name in pleasure? It's one more push, one more encouragement that makes Hannibal work all the harder.

He drinks in every shuddering moan for he's earned it. He's taken the time to work Will back up to this point and Will has blessedly decided to allow it. The tension in his body lessens; he's clearly trying to just allow himself to feel and Hannibal makes a mental note to thank Will for that later, when he's no longer so occupied. For in that moment he has one focus alone, and that is Will's pleasure, his moans, his squirming, the way his lips form Hannibal's name in a way that sends arousal racing through him.

Will is beautiful like this. While Hannibal can't see his face, he can hear his abandon, can hear the way he slowly allows himself to fall apart. He feels the flex of Will's thighs as he pushes back, fucking himself back on Hannibal's tongue when given the opportunity, and Hannibal shivers, unable to help but picture Will doing the same thing in a different setting.

His grip on Will's hand - slick with sweat - tightens and Hannibal pushes harder. Against him, Will's voice changes, his moans becoming higher and breathier, his hips unable to stay still. Hannibal follows him, allowing the squirming as he licks and pushes his tongue in deeper, deep enough that a profound ache has already set up in Hannibal's jaw but he pays it no mind. Instead, he has a single-minded focus on Will.

When Will's voice breaks on a beautiful gasp, desperately telling Hannibal not to stop, Hannibal nearly-growls in the back of his throat and only works harder, encouraged by the mild twitches he can feel around his tongue, by the tremor he can feel in Will's muscles.

He's close. Perhaps Will doesn't realize _how_ close. Hannibal does. He can feel it building around him and he doesn't hold himself back.

He works to make Will come, to feel it, and when Hannibal feels that first telltale flutter around his tongue and feels Will go rigid against him, he groans low in the back of his throat and doesn't relent. The scent of sex and come is as obvious as Will's trembling and twitching, the small sounds he makes. His muscles clench and shudder and Hannibal aches to feel the very same thing around his cock one day. He'd feel so perfect, and the thought makes Hannibal's grip tighten, makes him thrust deeper, and he has a few glorious seconds to find himself lost in Will's pleasure before Will can no longer take it.

Will shudders once more, breathing hard in a deep gasp, and then suddenly he's pulling away. Hannibal reluctantly allows it for he understands the nature of over-stimulation, but there is nothing but a dark, glittering pride in his eyes as Will shakily pulls away and nearly collapses, looking back at Hannibal with a beautiful wide-eyed shock and pleasure that makes him want to push even harder.

He doesn't. Instead he draws a slow breath, admiring the achingly beautiful color to Will's cheeks, the wild tangle of his hair, and the flush all the way down his chest. Then he swallows a few times and lifts his hand to his face, wiping the saliva from his chin as delicately as he can with Will watching.

"You are absolutely stunning like this," Hannibal says, his voice rougher, a little breathless.

His jaw aches but Hannibal doesn't tend to it. He merely looks at Will, selfishly drinking in the sight of him.

"You did well. I told you that you were capable, that you could do this for me."

Aware of how hyper-sensitive Will must be, how his skin is likely buzzing with pleasure, Hannibal reaches out and only sets a hand against Will's ankle, trailing warm up and then down the back of his leg.

"Just breathe, Will. Close your eyes and bask if you so wish. You've earned it."

It takes a certain headspace to come solely from what Hannibal had done. Will had to give himself over to it entirely, to give himself permission to live only in that moment. That Will had managed is nothing short of amazing.

* * *

Like the activity that brought him to this state, Will's orgasm is also overwhelming. He's panting, almost confused as he crawls away from Hannibal's mouth, now wetter than before. He's sweaty, hair still damp because of it, asscrack slick with spit that's slowly been sliding down his thighs and now his stomach is splattered in come. His body trembles as he takes rapid breaths and tries to come back down. As good as he feels, various groups of muscles are sore from his tensing and the position required.

Hannibal's eyes do not waiver, he looks fucking gratified and unrepentant as ever. His mouth and chin glisten with moisture and somehow he manages to not look completely undignified as he wipes at his slightly stubbled face. Will has no clue how it's managed. They regard each other, watch each other, both breathing quick and it's uncomfortably intimate but in a different way.

Another staggering leap has been made and Will's not even capable of discerning who started this current detour. Who can he point a finger at in blame? (Will has a feeling that they're both equally guilty this time.)

There's far too much to think on, to try and work and reason out. His mind already is fighting against the contentment that wants to settle in. Will is oversensitive, the touch to his ankle and trailing up his leg almost taking on a sharp edge.

He's told that he's stunning, that he's done well (what was Hannibal measuring? Had this simply been a pass or fail test?). And had he done this _for_ Hannibal? Agitation sparks, just the faintest of an eyebrow twitch and eyes narrowing, but it's difficult to summon up true offense about the insinuation when he's still experiencing the bliss of his climax. He definitely isn't closing his eyes. Will's unsure how to feel about the praise directed his way. (He likes it, but feels like he shouldn't.)

"I'm already breathing," Will finally says, but he can't muster the sarcastic delivery he'd been trying for. "Been breathing the entire time..."

His voice trails off as he gingerly makes his way to the side of the bed without creating more of a mess. Legs a bit unsteady, he walks back carefully to the foot of the bed and retrieves his towel from the floor, wasting no time in drying his belly and softening cock. It's with a small distressed sound - unconsciously made - that he reaches back and dries between his cheeks. It has to be done.

* * *

Will's distress is nothing short of stunning. Hannibal admires it silently, watches the way Will's expression flickers in uncertainty. He looks torn, looks like he'd like nothing more than to lash out, to close off. Hannibal is expecting it, to be honest. Will has done exactly that every time he's come by Hannibal's hand, or his mouth. Yet for those few perfect seconds following Will's orgasm, he doesn't look angry, doesn't look anything but sated, overwhelmed, and stunned. Hannibal wets his lips at the sight and ignores the twinge to his jaw. He'll deal with it later.

He watches as Will pulls away from his hand, his skin clearly oversensitive, and Hannibal slowly sits back on his heels. He's still naked, still hard enough that his cock is flushed deeply at the very tip, but he isn’t embarrassed, or shy. Why should he? Will had wished him like this, and it's a visceral reminder - for them both - that Will _does_ want this despite his insistence. _Will_ had wanted him bared, had wanted Hannibal to hold his hand, to ground him. Neither of them will forget that even if Will might wish to. Hannibal merely watches him with glittering interest in his eyes as Will slowly begins to move over to the edge of the bed.

His voice isn't sarcastic, though Hannibal guesses it was intended to be. He simply regards Will in a silence, though not even he can contain the look of satisfaction in his eyes as Will begins to clean himself up. His legs are shaking, his muscles still weak from orgasm, and Hannibal watches with a particular hunger as Will makes a beautifully-distressed sound and reaches back with the towel. He doesn't look away as Will cleans himself up - Will seems to enjoy some measure of humiliation, though Hannibal doesn't kid himself that that's what this is - and he simply lets out a slow breath, reaching up finally with careful fingers to set against his aching jaw. He doesn't mind; it had been well worth it.

"I believe you knew what I meant, but yes, you have been. There's nothing to be embarrassed about," Hannibal adds, all but ripping the veil off of Will's attempt to remain as subtle as possible. Neither of them have any true need for it now. "Perhaps you've never encountered the sexual act before, but it's more common than you would believe. You did tell me to take," Hannibal adds, and he finally reaches up to slide his fingers over his reddened cheek. The feeling of Will's slap is still hot on his skin, still enough to warrant mild offense.

"You made your position on the matter quite clear."

He'd told Hannibal to strip, told him to allow his sadism free, and he'd told him to _take_. Hannibal has never had sex with someone as violent and impulsive as Will Graham, and it's all the more thrilling for it.

* * *

Even while wiping come off of himself with one of the softest towels Will's ever used, Hannibal's gaze is unwavering and intense in its focus. Will can find no trace of shame present on Hannibal, just blatant interest in his eyes. He doesn't think anyone has openly gawked at him in such a way before, at least not while naked.

He's accustomed to former partners looking away during the awkward moments of cleanup or re-dressing after sex. That's the polite thing to do, anyway. However, Will's pretty sure Hannibal doesn't care about being polite right now. Is Hannibal's attention flattering? Maybe. (Does it make Will feel unworthy in some fucked up way he doesn't want to think on? Yes.)

He slapped Hannibal, ordering him to take and now he feels like he's high up on a tight wire with no net below to catch him if he falls. Will is riddled with uncertainty and as much as it may be instinct to flee from the uncomfortable, he can't do that now. His choices have brought him here, caught up in Hannibal's web - a position he's willingly moved himself too. Wasn't he supposed to be the spider weaving its silk around its victim? Why does it feel like their positions have been reversed somehow?

When Hannibal mentions embarrassment, Will stiffens, his eyebrows drawing in slightly. He finishes drying his ass. He could offer the towel to Hannibal (there's unused spots), but Will chooses to drop it to the floor and head to his duffel bag. He's not going to give Hannibal the satisfaction of seeing him uncertain. His back is turned as Hannibal continues, sounding as if he's trying to both normalize the activity and possibly pacify.

Will doesn't particularly care for it and thus he bends over and gives Hannibal a nice view of his ass while he rummages around in his bag. He pulls on boxers and when he turns around he's quashed down his distress and resolve has filtered back in.

"Yeah, I pushed and you _took._ Quite unabashedly, too," Will finally replies, his voice taking on a more husky tone as he approaches the bed. He climbs back on, crawling over to Hannibal. Perched on his knees before him, Will cups the side of Hannibal's face he slapped previously.

"You can slap me if you want... Or you could come on me." Will's eyes flick down at Hannibal's erection before returning to look at his face.

"You want that, Hannibal? You want to come all over me? On my face?"

Will doesn't exactly _want_ that, but he needs to keep Hannibal guessing, needs to keep Hannibal off balance like he is.

* * *

There's nothing in Hannibal that truly believes Will is going to remain. If this follows the logical suit, it's time for Will to retreat. Hannibal is curious where he intends to go, with the bed occupied by the man he likely wants to avoid. Logically the bathroom makes the most sense, but instead of rising and immediately leaving, instead Will turns and walks to his duffel bag.

Hannibal eyes him quietly as he bends over to retrieve his boxers, and given the blatant positioning, he doesn't bother pretending to be subtle. Will is an attractive man, and Hannibal takes pleasure in seeing him like this. While he's less pleased that Will is choosing to cover up, he says nothing. He fully intends to watch Will until he leaves.

Except Will still isn't moving for the bathroom door. Instead he turns around and Hannibal honestly _is_ surprised by the huskier quality to Will's tone. It's sudden, a little unexpected, and it's enough to make Hannibal's eyes narrow in mild suspicion but he still doesn't stop watching the way Will walks back over and climbs up onto the bed. He stays where he is as Will crawls over, and not even Hannibal is immune to the way heat slides through him at the sight.

He drops his hand and Will's lifts to replace it. Hannibal tenses only for a moment, darting a glance between Will's eyes and his hand, for he'd not put it past Will to slap him anew, but the offer - Will offering to let Hannibal slap him - catches him off guard.

Eyebrows lifting ever so slightly, Hannibal regards him quietly and he cannot mask the heat in his eyes when Will offers to let him _come_ on him. It appeals to a visceral, more instinctual side of him, perhaps, particularly as Will's fresh from the shower. Hannibal considers the offer and then simply wets his lips, ignoring the mild ache in his jaw.

"I have no need to slap you, though I do suspect you might enjoy it. In certain areas." He'd never been going to keep his observations a secret. Will looks far too interesting when he's distressed.

"Perhaps that is something to explore later. But yes, Will. If that is something you'd be able to handle, I'd like that."

Hannibal's voice is lower, warmer, and he slides his hand down to gently wrap around himself, easing the foreskin back with a soft exhale. He doesn't bother asking if Will intends to use his hand; it hasn't escaped his notice that Will hasn't touched him yet, but he's not so brazen as to point it out.

"Are you too sensitive to allow me to touch you?"

* * *

Like he had done on the road and while on the plane, Will can't help but feel the need to try and one-up Hannibal, to keep the older man guessing and on unstable ground. He can tell by Hannibal's expression that Hannibal is not expecting him to return; Hannibal is expecting him to simply cower and run away, to hide from his discomfort. Yes, Will would like that. That course of action would be safe, would feel safer than this, but Will resists.

Back on the bed with Hannibal, back in Hannibal's orbit, Will lets himself go again. He lets himself shed any lingering pride. There's no room for pride in this, no time to try and scramble and preserve what little self-respect he has left. So, it's a game of pushing Hannibal and pushing himself, of ensuring there is always titillation in some form, of keeping Hannibal equally blinded and hooked on him.

But asking to be come on...? This is veering off into porn territory. All they were missing was a cameraman and Will on his fucking knees (been there, done that). Asking to be slapped doesn't bother him - it's just violence - but the other act has more implications, it's demeaning. He probably should have thought this out, should have at least brought the towel with him. Hannibal's stubble is an interesting contrast to his hand and for a stupid second, Will wishes Hannibal was mirroring him, to have Hannibal's hand on his cheek… (No.)

And no slap for him. Not entirely surprising. The 'in certain areas' comment isn't surprising either. He liked getting spanked - Hannibal had noticed, of course. Will's hand drops as Hannibal's does too and Will is caught between watching Hannibal's expression and watching as Hannibal takes his cock in hand. The question has Will's face pinching in indignation. He knows Hannibal is just being courteous, but the usage of the word 'sensitive' has Will rankled.

"You can touch me," Will mumbles out.

* * *

The way Will's expression pinches is both endearing and enough to make Hannibal wonder how to draw that expression out again. So often Will allows himself to go blank. It's his safe retreat. It had been this way after he'd almost shot Ingram. Hannibal caught the hammer on the gun and Will's expression had immediately blanked. Whether in shock or anger not even Hannibal knew. Blank is Will's safe default and Hannibal admires it on him, but _this_ little flicker of indignation, of _fire_ is enough to get Hannibal's grip on his cock tightening. He draws in a deeper breath and savors the scent on the air, making no secret of the fact that he's doing exactly that.

He also doesn't miss what _prompted_ the expression. The word 'sensitive'. Hannibal's uncertain just what about the word Will disapproves of but seeing the fire in Will's eyes is still intoxicating. He rarely allows himself to be this blatant, and he's never allowed himself to simply drop the mask and pretense and _take_. It is entirely fitting that Will Graham is the one bringing this out in him.

"Very well," Hannibal breathes, and he nods to the bed pointedly, at the dark spots on the sheets that have already soaked into the comforter. Hannibal does spare a thought to the cleaning staff but soon decides he doesn't care.

"Would you please lay back on the bed, Will?"

Hannibal strokes himself slowly. It's marginally uncomfortable without lubrication, but he's leaking enough to take the edge off as his hand moves over himself. Instead of rough and rapid, however, Hannibal merely strokes himself languidly as he looks at Will, watching the lingering blush settled so perfectly over Will's skin and the uncertain indignation behind Will's eyes at Hannibal's request.

"What is it about being called sensitive that upsets you?" Hannibal asks as he reaches out with his free hand. He briefly touches his fingers to Will's shin and slides it slowly up to his knee. "I meant only that given how difficult it is to orgasm from anal stimulation alone, particularly without prostate or penile stimulation, you must be worked up even now. A vague touch feeling almost overwhelming. It's a common sensation accompanying a certain headspace. One I believe you achieved."

He's never shied away from being blunt, though he has the tact not to gloat. Instead he settles back on his heels beside Will and breathes slowly as he strokes himself. He'd not missed the glance Will had sent him and Hannibal makes a point to stroke himself in plain view, spreading the slick over his slit with a soft sound before falling back into that easy rhythm.

* * *

It's safer and customary for Will to school his features into something blank, to face Hannibal with as much neutrality as he can muster. He wore that mask for weeks. But now, Will is unable to stop from reacting. He's sure Hannibal has noticed. Hannibal may be jerking off, but he's still Hannibal, he's still ever observant and right now his specimen of choice is none other than Will Graham. (It's still fucking flattering, still gratifying, still pleasing to be the apple of Hannibal Lecter's fucking eye.)

Instructed to lay on the bed, Will makes an effort to avoid the wet spots left from their previous dalliance. He grabs a pillow and rests his head on it. It's not quite right. He then grabs another pillow to prop himself up more. If he's going to be Hannibal's sole audience member, he might as well have a good view. Hannibal, of course, remains composed, maybe even looking proud. His hand takes an unhurried pace, clearly in no rush to finish and Will, frankly, isn't surprised. Hannibal is next to his torso and can easily choose to come on his chest, belly or even aim for his face. Will's arms lay at his sides. He's willing - it was his suggestion after all - but he's not exactly thrilled by it.

Looking up at Hannibal, Will remembers when the wendigo - Hannibal - had been transposed over Tier. He'd felt so righteous punching Hannibal's smug face, being above him and both feeling and seeing the painful connect of his fist into a jaw. He's never been masochistic, not really, but a corrupt part of himself sort of _wants_ Hannibal to hit him, to hurt him. His insides felt that way already, like he's been through a trauma and has internal bruising and bleeding. If that's the case, why not feel and _see_ it on the outside too?

_'What is it about being called sensitive that upsets you?'_

The word 'sensitive' reminds him of a woman. He doesn't _want_ to be misogynistic in his thinking, but that's simply Will's go-to connotation for the word. Despite himself, he shivers at the nonsexual touch to his leg. He's already given so much to Hannibal, should it bother him to add his so-called fucking 'sensitivity' to the list? Hannibal's fucking medical reasoning doesn't help matters. Will's jaw tightens before he lets it go. Headspace? _Achieved?_

"Do I get a gold medal? A sticker for my achievement?" Will shoots back. He's focusing on Hannibal's face, not the act.

"You proud of yourself Hannibal?"

* * *

There's a small light of amusement behind Hannibal's eyes as Will makes a point to prop himself up. He's not seated, but he's at a better angle to see what Hannibal is doing. It's also a subconscious bid for control and Hannibal is left wondering if Will is _aware_ of what he's doing or if this - like most of Will's impulses - escapes him too. It's likely he just feels more comfortable like this and hasn't realized what an obvious bid for dominance it is.

It's endearing in the same way his whimpering had been earlier, and Hannibal strokes himself from base to tip just once, twisting his wrist around the head with a soft, barely-there breath. If Will is watching, why not draw this out and make it good?

He can see Will's displeasure etched into his features, though it's but a shadow against the expression he's affecting. Hannibal is no idiot. He knows precisely what Will is doing, attempting to swipe his own control back in the face of what he'd gone through. He's searching for foundations and instead of scurrying away to rebuild his own, he's hoping to make Hannibal rebuild it for him. Will may be offering himself in a submissive position, but _he_ is the one who's started this. In a way, this is his control.

Which is precisely why Hannibal is taking his time. Will may have suggested it, but this is happening on Hannibal's terms.

He doesn't miss the way Will shivers as he touches his leg, and Hannibal keeps his hand there, trailing his fingers casually over the meniscus and behind, simply touching the soft skin behind Will's knee. He touches lightly, the press of his fingers barely ghost over Will's skin and he delights in the shiver, his other hand moving with no rush. He can feel Will's temper burning under his skin like a fever and there is definite satisfaction in his gaze when he turns it on Will again, looking up to his face where his features are flushed and beautifully pinched. Hannibal wets his lips carefully, like simply looking at Will is enough to prompt it, and after a moment’s consideration, Hannibal nods.

"Yes. I am proud of myself. As would you be in my position," he replies easily, and takes a moment to focus on sliding his foreskin back and then over the head, gathering slick over his palm.

He briefly considers offering his hand for Will to lick but decides that Will is more likely to bite than he is be cooperative. The anger in his tone is obvious and Hannibal allows it to give him a small thrill. The tightness of Will's jaw is enough to make Hannibal slide his free hand up. He touches over Will's side, over his sternum, and up the middle of his throat. It's entirely nonsexual, and he bypasses Will's lips entirely, instead moving to press his thumb to Will's chin and his fingers to the bulge of his clenched jaw, feeling the anger coiled there.

"Would you like a medal, Will? Or a sticker? I would have assumed an orgasm would have been enough of a reward for you."

* * *

Honestly, Will assumed that this would be over quick, that it would be like what he's seen in pornos. He'd get down on his knees and Hannibal's hand would move quickly over his cock until he jizzed on Will's face. Bing, bang, boom. The end. But, no. That was an incorrect assumption. Will has been short sighted. He's laid out before Hannibal like a visual feast and Hannibal's hand strokes his dick lazily. It becomes clear that this will be drawn out. And what's horribly ironic about it all is that Will has offered himself up into this precarious position in a bid for control of sorts.

But he's not in control and he's fairly certain that Hannibal knows it, too. Will can see the amusement in Hannibal's eyes, how the touch paid to him is gentle and unhurried -- more curious in nature. Hannibal is a cat with its saucer full of cream placed in front of him and he's in no rush to indulge and consume it in a hurry. Will curses himself inwardly and tries desperately to hold onto the nerve that had got him here in the first place.

' _I am proud of myself. As would you be in my position.'_

His retort is on the tip of his tongue. Will _can hear_ himself spit it out: 'maybe, but I don't plan on ever being in the position to lick your ass to begin with.'

He refrains, jaw clenching harder. Keep it together. Will needs to not lose his cool, to reel himself back in, to be tightly coiled like a spring. Secure and unmoving. It's difficult to do when he's laying before Hannibal, exposed and all of his own doing. It's a small concession that he's at least not completely naked.

When the motion of Hannibal’s arm changes, Will can't help but let his eyes flicker downward and watch as fingers work foreskin down and precome is obscenely spread over a palm. He doesn't know how he feels about it -- what should he be feeling about it? What should he be thinking about in this unhurried moment that ticks on? Touch trails up his chest, up his throat, apparently seeking the noticeable tension in his jaw.

Will forces himself to relax, his lips parting slightly in an exhale even. He doesn't need to be showing Hannibal any more of his frustration. It's not an easy feat as Hannibal replies. Truthfully, he set himself up for the fucking question - whether he wants a medal or a sticker - for his accomplishment and a scowl settles on his features.

It does take Will a few seconds to come up with a reply that he feels is suitable.

"I suppose I owe you gratitude then?" Will's face relaxes, his voice light, almost silvery and quite the contrast from his previous sardonic tone. His lips quirk up at the corners. "Thank you, Hannibal."

It's a different kind of challenge issued. Will Hannibal call him out on his insincerity?

* * *

What a beautiful and conflicting creature Will Graham is. A wolf willingly laying on his back, exposing his belly in submission while his lips curl back over bared fangs, completely at odds with his nature. Hannibal studies Will's frown, can feel the exhausted anger thrumming in the air and he wants nothing more than to taste it, to lean in and catch Will's lips in a kiss and invite Will's teeth to close over his lip.

He feels the need to intentionally provoke a response, to watch the beast lunge for the bait while he enjoys the coil of muscles and the vicious danger in Will's eyes.

Yet despite his anger, despite his frustration, he's just as uncomfortable and small in this now as he was in the shower. Will Graham is multifaceted and thrilling and someone Hannibal will never be able to predict. This comes with its own set of problems. If he'd been able to predict Will, they wouldn't be in this situation in the first place, with Will tagging along at his heels and Hannibal finding other outlets to work off his aggression (and his hurt, though he refuses to acknowledge such a thing).

Complex and violent as their coming together has been, Hannibal still prefers Will by his side, even if he is a twisted amalgamation of mutual betrayal. Perhaps one day their shattered edges will find one another and reform together, smooth.

But that day will not be today. Hannibal watches the flicker of anger in Will's eyes, watches and feels the bulge to his jaw, the gentle vibration as Will grinds his teeth. Hannibal drinks down the fire in Will's eyes as he touches him, and when Will makes a conscious effort to try and force himself to relax, Hannibal strokes his fingers over the flexing muscles in Will's jaw in mock encouragement.

"Very good, Will," he praises, and this is no lie. He's pleased Will is trying to relax. He _also_ knows that despite his orgasm, Will is tense and likely embarrassed over his own reaction. That Hannibal hasn't fully stopped smiling likely doesn't help matters.

Even so, aware that Will had taken a moment to watch him stroke his cock, Hannibal keeps his movements slow and full. It's enough to keep him hard, to gently nudge him closer to the possibility of pleasure in the future. Yet as Hannibal's hand strokes over his skin, as he draws his foreskin back and then drops his fingers to the frenulum to rub quick enough to pull a softer, deeper breath of pleasure from his throat, his focus is on Will, on his frown, his lips. A small bead of moisture forms at the tip of Hannibal's cock and he slows his fingers down with a soft, slightly-shuddering breath. Tempting as imagining Will's lips is, he doesn't want to come so soon.

That Will's eventual reply is light and fake is enough to draw a soft sound of amusement from Hannibal's throat, one that ends as a breath of laughter. He's impressed by the snide tone, by the way Will _simpers_. It's unexpected.

"You could be grateful," he says simply. "You aren't. But you could be. Why is it so difficult to admit you enjoyed yourself, Will? You were quite enthusiastic while it happened. You wanted me to take. You slapped me when I wouldn't," Hannibal reminds him, with just the faintest edge to his voice.

"Repression is not a healthy way to live, Will. Greedily taking what you can get and denying its existence later will only whet your appetite for when next you remember what my tongue felt like."

* * *

Hannibal has fuller lips -- almost like a woman. Will's not pleased by this observation, but he never really paid that much attention to Hannibal’s mouth _before._ Now, Hannibal is fucking smiling, all too pleased by this scene unfolding.

Will _could_ leave, could throw in the towel, but he doesn't want to be unnerved by Hannibal. He has to live with this man for the foreseeable future, he has to find a way to accept these tricky situations, to learn how to navigate them better because Will doesn't want Hannibal to have the upper hand. Will doesn't want to flee like a bitch.

He could be grateful, yes. He probably should be. It _was_ a great orgasm, leaving him unhinged and even lost afterward. It had been intense and overwhelming (and yes, he's still _sensitive_ , skin overheated and Hannibal's touch giving him a jittery feeling). It's difficult to be grateful toward Hannibal because he's worried what it could _mean_ (because it had to _mean_ something, didn't it?). Will is worried about Hannibal gloating, about hand feeding Hannibal's ego like Mason had fed scraps of his face to his dogs.

Yes, he'd slapped Hannibal, demanding that the older man _take,_ Will just hadn't _assumed_ that it would be that particular activity again. He'd clearly overestimated Hannibal's desire to see _him_ undone and a mess.

Fucking assumptions. If Hannibal just jerked his dick faster it could be over, but no, why would Hannibal do that? Why would Hannibal try to ease some of his discomfort, Will's giving him a nice show.

He needs to give him a different show, like he had with the gun.

Okay, another performance. It's just another mindset he has to get into and like a swing of the pendulum, he closes his eyes. Will leaves his embarrassment and agitation behind, locked up in a trunk and left to float down his stream and to be dealt with later (hopefully not for a long while).

His eyes open and gone is his hesitation and irritation, his body relaxing into the bed and the closest hand reaching out, his fingertips running up Hannibal's thigh.

"But I think you'll be more than willing to remind me just what your tongue feels like, won't you?" Will asks, his voice low as he makes a show of wetting his bottom lip.

"You're making some nice sounds there, Hannibal. Subtle, but I can hear them."

* * *

 _That_ is intriguing. Hannibal tilts his head as he watches Will's expression shift, as he watches something complicated and frustrated flicker behind his eyes. For a moment Hannibal wonders when Will is going to decide enough is enough. This is hardly a test, but it's serving as one intentionally or not.

Regardless of how sweet the reward, a rat in a maze will eventually give up if the cost is too high. Will Graham is hardly a rat in a maze, but Hannibal _is_ pushing. Perhaps it's not for the same reason he once had. His desire to see Will broken and reformed is muted now, replaced by his desire to stoke the flame, to push Will into action, into _doing_ something, into making sense again.

Just as Hannibal is convinced that Will is nearing his breaking point, something shifts. Hannibal watches in a slightly-breathless silence as Will's eyes close. It's like a physical change in that moment. He watches curiously as the tension leaves Will's shoulders and he can _feel_ the ease of tension under his hand. Hannibal is intrigued, left watching and curious as Will seems to gather himself up and reform his own edges, transforming himself into something else, or perhaps merely focusing on one facet of his personality.

When Will's eyes open, there's a lazy confidence behind them that Hannibal feels drawn to. The difference in Will's posture is fascinating, and the difference in his tone of voice is nothing short of intriguing. Yet regardless of how intellectually interested in Will Hannibal finds himself, the way Will reaches out and touches him is enough to draw his entire focus.

Hannibal glances down at Will's hand, at the point of contact, and his breath hitches noticeably as his hand slows again. Another drop of precome glistens at his slit but Hannibal merely wets his lips as he looks down at Will, admiring the picture he makes.

"You will find in time that I hide very little, Will," he says softly, his focus torn between the touch of Will's hand and the way his lips shine after a pass of Will's tongue. Hannibal slides his fingers over and through the scratch of Will's facial hair as he sets his thumb gently on Will's lower lip, tracing it only for a moment before he drops his touch back to Will's throat.

"If you wish to hear me, you need only say so. Just as, if you wish to feel my tongue again, you need only ask."

He hardly expects Will _to_ ask, but watching the flicker of emotion at the thought of being made to _beg_ (for that's likely what Will is going to hear) will be intriguing. Hannibal glances down at Will's hand again, so close to where his own is wrapped loosely around his cock, which is flushed and almost painfully red at its tip. Hannibal hardly cares. He merely breathes through the spike in arousal.

"But I would prefer you ask as yourself. Are you wearing someone, Will, or are you merely repressing again?"

* * *

Yes, Will notices Hannibal's breath stutter when touch is paid to him. It's barely anything - Will simply letting his fingertips graze a thigh - but it's enough to cause Hannibal's hand to slow. This speaks volumes to Will, illustrating that perhaps Will isn't the only one desperate for touch and attention. (If he looks in a mirror, will he see himself or Hannibal reflected back? The space between them has already begun to diminish.)

_'If you wish to hear me, you need only say so. Just as, if you wish to feel my tongue again, you need only ask.'_

(Even now, there's that belligerent part that wants to scoff at the insinuation that he'd ask, but Will knows that he asked on the plane... That he begged.)

Touch paid to his scruff and Will leans into it minutely. He resists licking at Hannibal's finger when it comes to his wet lip, but only just. He can't be too eager, now. Patience. This is something Will isn't especially great with, but he'll try. It's all he can do.

The question of him possibly _wearing_ someone else or repressing has Will's eyes glinting.

"It's likely more amusing if I'm struggling, isn't it?" Will gives a knowing smile. He can't blame Hannibal for delighting in his distress. Hadn't he enjoyed Hannibal struggling on his knees, his face full of cock? (Yes, there's no longer a chasm between them, Will can see both of their shadows.)

"If you cut obsidian in one way it appears jet black, yet in another it can be a glistening grey." His voice is gravelly, hoarse from his previous enthusiasm. Technically he shouldn't be using his safeword in conversation, but Hannibal will know he's not using it for this to stop. Will is merely making a point.

"Facets, Hannibal. Angles. Hold me in your hand and manipulate me, turn me, feel my edges, learn me. Learn that there are different sides to me. I'm not wearing anyone. This _is_ me."

A brief pause, and then: “This is me embracing my depravity. A side that I'm learning to explore because of you.”

With that stated, Will's hand leaves Hannibal's thigh, coming to wrap around the wrist of Hannibal's free hand and lifting to his own face. Once again, like with the gun, Will opens his mouth and embraces depravity, tongue pushing out to lick down Hannibal's thumb and up to his index finger.

* * *

There is a third option that Hannibal hasn't considered thus far. He assumes Will's sudden allowance, his flirtatiousness, the glittering dark in his eyes can be only a mask or only a shroud. There is no part of him that believes it could be a different facet to Will's personality, something he _has_ been repressing to let free.

He's confident in his assessment, for while he has no qualms with Will hiding himself away in certain ways, he doesn't wish to come undone for anyone who isn't Will Graham. As tantalizing as the touch to his thigh is, it's too bold and Hannibal thinks nothing of his claim.

So when Will merely responds with amusement, with a small, knowing smile, Hannibal does pause, curious despite himself. He needs a moment to calm back down anyway, for a willing touch from Will's hand is as good as a quick stroke to his cock.

He cannot deny that there is a certain appeal to the thought of Will struggling, though not beyond a certain point. He doesn't wish to force Will into anything, but he does enjoy watching him struggle with himself. Watching him struggle to embrace his pleasure, his nature, is intoxicating. The way he'd panted, ragged and uncertain as his hips had squirmed for _more_ while he'd been telling himself he should move away from Hannibal's tongue had been mesmerizing. He enjoys that split and while he doesn't verbally answer, the heat in his eyes is apparent enough.

What _does_ make him pause fully is the word. Obsidian. Hannibal's hand has already moved away from his cock by the time he realizes this isn't Will safewording out. He feels a flicker of irritation at the idea of using the word in casual conversation, but as Will speaks, it _does_ illustrate his point well.

Hannibal's smile dies into a small frown, both annoyed and thoughtful, and he regards Will - this _facet_ of Will - curiously. With Will's words in mind, he looks him over slowly, registering the impulsiveness behind Will's eyes, the easy curl to his smile, and he names it as _depravity_ in his mind the second before Will says it aloud. Hannibal wets his lips.

"I see."

He does. His hand slowly moves back to his cock, still hard, still aching and flushed, looking painful, but it's an enjoyable discomfort. Hannibal looks down at Will, and his breath catches when Will takes his wrist. That touch alone - his calluses rough on the scar on Hannibal's wrist - is enough to entice, but when Will parts his lips and his tongue flicks out to lick wet and hot over Hannibal's thumb, there is no way he can properly resist. The sensation is sudden and sharp and it punches a soft sound from his throat, something that sounds like it would have been Will's name had Hannibal formed the word with his lips and tongue.

His hand slides down to the base of his cock and he squeezes gently, obviously. There's no other reason for it but to stop an approaching orgasm, and Hannibal shivers through a moment of discomfort before his attention again moves to Will's tongue. Hannibal's thumb gently traces Will's lower lip and he sounds less composed when he speaks.

"Depravity indeed. Control as well. You enjoy withholding what you know I desire from you." His mouth, lips red and stretched around his cock, to feel Will's heat as Will had felt his. "I wonder if you will ever truly touch me, or if the pleasure you gain from watching me touch myself, knowing I desire you enough to debase myself gladly is too intoxicating a prospect."

* * *

While Will knows he's not supposed to use his safeword in conversation, Will doesn't really particularly care. They're both adults and why make this arrangement easy for Hannibal? It catches him off guard that Hannibal actually pulled his hand away for a moment at hearing _obsidian_. At least the man paid attention. (Will feels good about it; it's a measure of assurance that he'll keep close which speaks of Hannibal being able to at least be trusted with respecting safewords.)

It _is_ depravity. Like going willingly to his knees on the wet road while rain cascaded down on them. Like bringing the loaded gun to his mouth and sucking. Like allowing and enjoying Hannibal taking control and pushing the gun in further. Like asking for attention, begging for honeyed words to be whispered to him. Like rocking back onto Hannibal's hot and persistent tongue.

Will is wresting back some control now. All it takes is reframing the situation and letting himself slide into the slick feeling that being licentious brings. Hannibal's reaction to him choosing to lick his fingers is a delight and the telling gasp followed by Hannibal's hand pinching off his orgasm brings a smile to Will's lips. What truly is a treat is Hannibal's less-than-composed tone and the words that follow.

_'I wonder if you will ever truly touch me...'_

"I _am_ touching you, Hannibal," Will replies cheekily, but he knows what Hannibal is getting at.

It's likely an inevitability, at least that's his conclusion on the matter. His hand, at some point, will _directly_ touch Hannibal's cock. His mouth will stretch to accommodate Hannibal's size. His fingers will have their first experience with foreskin. At some point these things will happen. He has mixed feelings about it, but Will doesn't worry about these concerns. He's living in this charged moment and yes, it's intoxicating to know how much Hannibal desires him. (Is he even fully aware of the depth? Likely not.)

"Good things come to those that wait, hm?" Will moves his hold on Hannibal's hand higher, exposing the line of a scar. Will's tongue reaches out again and he travels along the path that Matthew Brown carved into Hannibal's forearm. He's never licked a scar before, but it seems appropriate that it ought to be Hannibal's.

* * *

Hannibal is beginning to realize how changeable control is when it comes to Will Graham. It's a sobering realization, to look down at the man he'd held firmly under his own control not thirty seconds ago and realize that Will has changed it. With one simple movement of Will's hand, one slow, languid lick of his tongue, Hannibal's control halves. With simple words Will constructs a cage, and as he lifts Hannibal's wrist to his mouth, he threatens to coyly throw away the key.

His voice is low and smooth, tempting, and Hannibal watches as Will's grip moves higher, as he gently bends Hannibal's hand back enough to make Matthew Brown's scar stand out in stark contrast against his skin. A shiver slides over Hannibal's skin as he holds both hands still - one merely waiting, the other attempting to stave off his own orgasm. It's not been long since Hannibal's wrists had opened, since Will's proxy had attempted to do his bidding. Hannibal can feel a stretch in the scar tissue when his hand bends back enough, and if he focuses hard enough, he can almost feel the cold bite of steel.

Then he can feel nothing but the hot press of Will's tongue. Hannibal's breath catches audibly as Will licks a slow path along the length of the scar, from one edged tip to the other. It's smooth save for the slight irregularity from the stitches but Hannibal doesn't care. His focus is on the warm slide of Will's tongue and the shiver that races through him, prickling gooseflesh along his skin and sending a knife's edge of arousal through him like the blade itself.

Hannibal feels himself shoved close - too close - and grunts softly in the back of his throat as his eyes close in a futile bid for control. He knows immediately that while he _could_ hold back if given time, he hardly has that time. Not with Will's mouth on his skin, not with his tongue an unending temptation. His cock is so swollen that it's edging closer to painful than pleasurable and Hannibal hisses almost inaudibly under his breath as he strokes a hand over himself just once, just to ease the sting back into pleasure, oversensitive as it may be. Waiting is hardly an option now.

"If you continue as you are," Hannibal breathes, his fingers twitching at another pass of Will's tongue, groping for nothing but unable to keep still, "that will be it. I'm close, Will."

Whether or not Will is expecting courtesy, he has it now. Hannibal's breathing is deep, a flush crawling down the line of his throat to play over his chest. He knows this will damn him in the end, to allow Will to know how easily Hannibal is affected by him, but he has no other option. Will's mouth is hot and Hannibal aches to claim it. With his lips, with his fingers, with his cock, he cares little in that moment. All he wants is to watch Will, to drink in the sight of him.

* * *

The slashes on Hannibal's wrists may have healed - gashes closed, scar tissue formed - but the injuries they've dealt each other, the wounds they carry on the inside, have not mended. Not yet and likely not for a long while. Bitterness is a slow acting poison and revenge is no antidote, but this is the path Will has set himself on. It's unwise, but wisdom has never been a virtue Will's sought to possess in any quantity, so why start now?

He remembers glimpsing those prolific scars while Hannibal handed him a knife to slice ginger. Hannibal had been so blind, so trusting, passing the knife over with no thought to any possible danger - at least nothing Will had picked up.

(' _We will make it together_ ' ... and they had prepared lomo saltado with Tier's contributions instead of Freddie's.) The knife gleamed, Will seeing a shade of himself in the reflection, but he'd been able to resist the siren's call. Perhaps he shares the Ripper's need for theatrics, after all. He can still remember that Hannibal had waited for him to have the first bite, eyes watching, searching and then that peculiar _pleased_ smile Hannibal had worn while he pointed out that the meat was not pork...

The warning Will receives is hardly necessary and he almost wants to laugh at the show of courtesy. It's not exactly surprising by any means. It's completely Hannibal in its absurdity - not quite the sensitive psychopath, no, but he's a serial killer who abhors rudeness. In another life, Will would be darkly amused by the reality.

He stops his licking only to say, "Go on then. I want you to."

And maybe there is actually some truth to it. Surely more than Will had initially thought. Being witness to and being the cause of someone's pleasure and their undoing is undoubtedly powerful. Come is gross and all, but Hannibal's full attention is engulfing him, making it far too easy to go along with this. Will returns to his licking, his hand gripping Hannibal's own more tightly as he tongues the scar enthusiastically, lapping at it like a dog. It feels depraved - it _is_ depraved, but Will doesn't stop. He's not going to stop until Hannibal comes on him.

* * *

There is depravity in this, a play for power left unequal, for regardless of how Hannibal wields his own power, no matter how vehemently he clings to the possibility of holding sway over Will, actions do speak louder than words. Will has had his mouth, his hands, and has allowed Hannibal to take him apart. There is no question as to what Hannibal desires, where his loyalties lie - bitter as they may be.

Despite his wrath, despite the bitterness bordering on petulance, Will Graham has worked his way under Hannibal's skin like ink, branding him plainly. The balance is unequal and the storm will one day come to a head, but for all of Hannibal's protests, for all his irritation, not even he can deny what is clearly in front of him. Will is the one who holds the power. Hannibal can hurt him, can threaten him, can coerce him, but Will can change his mind. Will can leave.

Hannibal doesn't want to know what lengths he'd be driven to without Will Graham. How reckless would he become? How agonized? If control can be so easily snatched from his hands by the mere touch of Will's tongue, Hannibal knows the power imbalance is dangerous and yet he does nothing.

He can't. A life _with_ Will, regardless of how rocky it starts, is better than a life without. Hannibal feels the press of Will's lips so sweetly, feels the curve of his mouth as his tongue traces over each inch of the scar, and Hannibal breathes out a low, punched-out sound that is half pleasure and half something completely different. It's a shielded sound, wounded, frustrated, resigned. Oh, he can take, but only if Will _allows_.

The coiled, feral thing in his chest that protests this is drowned out by the allowance he's given and Hannibal's jaw clenches as he ducks his head, chin brushing his chest as he eases a little closer. The vindictive side of him wishes to exacerbate Will's discomfort but the rest feels unearthed.

Will's tongue - his attention, his favor - is all it takes. Hannibal's breathing hitches, each breath deeper and unsteady, and he fights the urge to close his eyes. Instead Hannibal merely regards Will in a focused silence as his hand moves again, stroking his cock without any hint of restraint. His hips twitch and his focus narrows down to the hot press of Will's tongue as his pulse races, and when pleasure crests over him, it feels raw and torn out of him, like Will's teeth settled into his skin.

He comes without calling Will's name, but he hardly needs the word with how fixed his focus is. His breathing turns ragged, a low sound akin to a would-be-growl tearing itself from his throat. He strokes himself as he does as Will had requested and comes over his skin, all over his chest and abdomen, quelling the vindictive urge he'd had to come over his face instead. When Will tastes him properly, it will not be due to cheap tricks and force. Much as Hannibal aches to see it, and bitter as he is, Will is not a man to take for granted.

* * *

While he might feel high on the knowledge that he's the sole cause of Hannibal's arousal, that he's able to fight back in a way, Will doesn't particularly feel _in control_. Power and control, to him, are often separate. Power usually fluctuates, for he'd felt powerful holding the gun to Hannibal's head out on the road, but soon after the performances ended, he felt small and uncertain. He'd bitten Hannibal in the shower, but the morning after he reached for Hannibal's hand on the plane in need of support...

Control, on the other hand, is something Will desperately seeks, his hands reach out, arm stretching, fingers only grazing the sought-after object. He'd like to feel more in control of a lot of things, namely himself. (His fucking heart too.)

His tongue continues its wet worship and Will basks in Hannibal's attention. He can feel the texture difference between the line of scars and the rest of Hannibal's wrist as he zigzags his tongue across the path. His view is somewhat impaired but Will can make out enough to know that Hannibal is fixed on him - he can feel it. Will realizes that he _likes_ the idea that he's forever altered something on Hannibal's body. He wants to change Hannibal more, to both create the wound and watch Hannibal's body heal and have another scar left in its wake. Shouldn't their outside appearance reflect what's surely on the inside?

He may be able to lord his direct touch over Hannibal; he may be able to work up Hannibal, to pull out quieter sounds of pleasure and push them both into depravity, but Will, ironically, doesn't feel like he holds all the cards here. As much as he'd _like_ to be the ringleader, Will knows Hannibal's attention and touch _matter_ to him now. He's taken a bite from the apple - the damage has been done and there's no way to forget or go back.

Hannibal sounds beautiful and wrecked as he climaxes. Hot come lands onto Will, splattering on his chest and stomach. Even though he can smell and feel it, Will is surprised that he's not actually grossed out about Hannibal shooting a load on him. He stops licking, pressing a kiss to Hannibal's wrist and pressing his mouth there long enough to feel that steady and elevated pulse point. Will then releases his hold on Hannibal's hand and glances down.

"Got me all dirty again, I'll need another shower," he doesn't manage to sound sultry at all and it kind of irks Will. (He sounds a little breathless, a little awed, but it wasn't _him_ that just got off...)

* * *

Pleasure pulses hot through Hannibal's body as he comes, as he keeps Will solely in his focus. It feels good, intense, but nothing feels better in that moment than Will's gaze so solidly fixed on Hannibal and the press of Will's tongue against his pulse. Hannibal shakes apart, his breath ragged even though he keeps most of his sounds silent. Small ones do escape him and he swears he can see Will's eyes light up in a specific kind of greed when he sees that, but Hannibal merely enjoys Will's favor when it lasts.

His pleasure crests, he has a moment to admire the stunning picture Will makes like this, and then Hannibal is left breathing hard as pleasure fades into a pleasant glow. It would undoubtedly be better were he not so positive that Will Graham has once again undone him. Pleasure is what it is, but Will had held control whether or not he'd been aware of it. Hannibal cannot help his irritation.

He doesn't let it show. Instead he slowly, shakily sits back on his heels and looks down at the mess on Will's stomach. The bed is wet with Will's come and now Will himself carries traces of Hannibal's. The scent of sex is everywhere and while picking out subtleties in ejaculate is hardly possible, Hannibal _can_ smell their scents combined. It's satisfying despite the reality the both of them find themselves in, and when Hannibal wearily takes his hand away from his cock, he doesn't hesitate to reach over and press it to Will's abdomen. He's quiet as he presses his thumb to a single drop, then massages it in closer, as if rubbing a claim into Will's skin. If only.

Hannibal's only consolation is that Will does sound affected. He's not missed the press of Will's lips to his wrist, and when Will finally draws his hand and mouth away, Hannibal swallows a few times as he fights to catch his breath and then looks Will over, appraising and pleased despite himself. Despite Will so easily swooping in and wresting control from him.

"Yes, you will," Hannibal says quietly, a little breathless. As he speaks, he moves his free hand up to Will's cheek. He does nothing but touch, tracing the sharp angle of Will's cheek, then down to his jaw. For a brief moment Hannibal considers fulfilling Will's other request, considers the way Will had offered to let Hannibal slap him.

He doesn't. Instead he drops his thumb to Will's lips and brushes over them only once before drawing his hand back.

"Thank you, Will." Undoubtedly this isn't expected, but given what Will had allowed him to do, Hannibal is not so far gone that he's lost sight of his manners. He draws in a deep breath, holds it, and then lets it out again slowly.

"How do you feel?"

* * *

Will has entirely way too much to think about. He may not be certain about much, but he's sure about that. He knows he's always been impulsive, reckless. In the heat of the moment, when emotions are at their highest, he often ends up being swayed by them. He's not as calculating, not like Hannibal had surely been when moving the pieces along the chess board to entrap him and frame him for murders he was innocent of. But Hannibal has proven that he's perhaps more tempestuous than Will originally thought. Maybe they're more alike than Will could have ever realized. (But is this a good realization?)

 _'I don't find you that interesting.'_ God, it was laughable to think back to that time. He'd been certain of his assessment to - that friendship was an unlikely possibility because Dr. Lecter was bland. He asserted that he found Lecter uninteresting, but even then, a part of Will was sure that, in the end, _he'd_ be the one deemed unworthy, too much _work_ or too strange _._ (Hadn't that been the story of his life? Always too much of something, never just right. Too unstable for the FBI and Alana, broken enough that Jack believed he was an intelligent psychopath...) But his eccentricities had delighted Hannibal.

Not only is _he_ a mess, the bed is a mess as well. Will watches as Hannibal reaches out, the pad of his thumb smearing a drop of come into his skin. He wonders if this is going to be a thing for them. Both blood and come have been rubbed into his skin - even into the cut on his cheek. The touch paid to his face - across his cheek, down to his jaw and then to his mouth - has Will fighting to keep still and not lean into it. He doesn't want to show that he likes it. Hannibal surely knows, but resisting occasionally has been par for the course and who would he be now if he didn't do that?

The admission of gratitude dumbfounds Will and he sits up, not wanting to lay out before Hannibal anymore. He's on his knees and he takes in Hannibal's appearance. The man looks only mildly shaken, hair askew, a little sweaty, a little relaxed even - but still guarded. Wary. How much armor does the man in front of him wear? (Will's made cracks and dents, surely.)

"You don't have to thank me," Will mutters awkwardly and he shuffles closer to Hannibal. Before he can think better of it, his hand reaches out - not to slap, no - instead, he cups Hannibal's cheek.

"I feel like I'm all kinds of messed up," he admits with a frown, pulling his hand away quickly and making to climb off the bed.

* * *

Compromised. That is what they are, the both of them. Hannibal is quiet as he looks down at Will, breathless, a vision spread out before him despite the aching bitterness housed compact in both their chests. The lingering warmth of Will's skin is like a brand on his own. He can still feel the warmth of Will's lips against his thumb - not the one he'd used to rub the come into Will's skin, for again, he doesn't wish to force that - and he curls it in against his palm, wrapping his fingers around it like he's attempting to protect a cherished memory that will one day fade. In this moment, while Hannibal mourns his control, he notices finally that Will hardly looks composed. There's no obvious appearance of composure in Will's eyes either. He looks shaken as well.

Hannibal is quiet as Will gets to his knees, even edges back to give him the room and the dignity to do so. He's quiet as he looks at Will, as he traces the confused set to Will's expression with his gaze, and when Will finally speaks, sounding awkward, Hannibal merely ducks his head in a breathless acknowledgment.

He sits back on his heels as he catches his breath, but before he can think of another thing to say, Will looks conflicted and then shuffles forwards on his knees. Hannibal goes quiet but not even he can resist the small drawn breath as Will reaches out with one hand and touches his reddened cheek. It's likely hot to the touch even now, but Hannibal cares little. Will's touch is a shock.

He doesn't slap. He doesn't scratch. He makes no effort to claw Hannibal's cheek open in reciprocity for the gash to his own. Instead he merely touches and for a moment Will looks achingly young and as conflicted as Hannibal feels. Hannibal swallows, as composed as he can be, and when Will's hand draws away, he fights the urge to chase it, to reach out and grab it and draw it back in. He merely breathes slowly and then allows Will to move away, to begin climbing off the bed.

Despite his unease, despite his lack of foundation, even now he refuses to give in. Hannibal thinks back to what Jack had once called this creature. A _broken pony_ in his stable. The very concept is laughable as he watches Will gather himself together. He's no broken pony. To steal the analogy, he's a wild, untamed creature even now, even while uncertain and shaken.

Hannibal wets his lips. "You are not alone in that sensation, Will," he says quietly, and that's the only lifeline Hannibal throws him. It's unlike him to be so forthcoming but this feels important to say. Will shouldn't feel alone in this despite their bitterness.

"Take a shower. I will contact housekeeping and change the sheets. Once you're finished, come back. Sleep. I believe we both need to rest."

* * *

His touch seems to startle Hannibal, even though Hannibal doesn't show much, Will can tell. Given that he'd fucking slapped him earlier, Will's not surprised. Will hasn't exactly been tender or kind... He's been demanding and impulsive. Of course reckless too. Hannibal has allowed him to get away with it all. More or less, anyway.

They can't be good for each other, but they're all each other have now. Perhaps it's better this way - the monsters would roam through the night together, and maybe the world may be better if their destructive tendencies were turned on each other...

But tenderness is a stretch for them, uncomfortable and foreign, so the touch doesn't last. Will gets off the bed. (A small part of him wishes Hannibal to stop him. He hadn't been lying. He is messed up.)

_'You are not alone in the sensation, Will...'_

The admission almost feels like Hannibal is throwing him a bone. What the fuck is he supposed to do with it though? Will swallows, standing on legs that feel shaky. He's all too relieved at the suggestion of another shower and with a nod he's returning to the lavish bathroom and looking at himself in the mirror.

He's splattered with come, his face flush, but the gash has stopped bleeding. Will's hair is still damp, but he can tell it's from sweat. He feels strange - different - like he's had some spiritual encounter and nothing would ever be the same again. He shakes his head at the idea, stripping out of his boxers and climbing into the bathtub.

He takes his time in the shower, the hot water and body wash that smells like perfume gets rid of all the traces of where Hannibal has been. (Will feels a bit numb about it.) In twenty minutes, he's scrubbed thoroughly but still unsure. Back in his boxers, he makes his second appearance, feeling the siren's call of the bed.

* * *

Hannibal does as he'd told Will he would once Will retreats into the bathroom. He takes his time to breathe and waits until Will is properly ensconced in the shower before sneaking quietly into the bathroom to wet a cloth in the sink and clean himself off as best as he can. It hardly leaves him feeling properly clean but it gives him time to reset his appearance before he makes his way back out into the room and quietly redresses.

He strips the sheets from the bed and then finds the phone in the room in order to call the front desk. There's no shame in his voice when he explains the need for fresh sheets and the hotel is far too professional to inquire as to why. Instead housekeeping arrives and Hannibal takes the time to take the sheets himself. The young woman who arrives looks like she wants to argue but Hannibal merely smiles at her, affecting something almost sheepish, and tells her - in Spanish - that he wouldn't feel right about forcing her to work extra for his own whims. He tips her generously and watches her eyes grow wide, and she hastily thanks him in her native tongue, smiling, and makes her way off with the soiled sheets wrapped in a plastic bag to be washed.

Confident she will remember nothing but the tip and her language, Hannibal returns to the bed to make it up. Rule number one about disappearing is not to hide, but to make a positive impression so that even if someone _does_ recognize them, they'll be caught with disbelief and refuse to accept it. It's the same logic used by high crimes and the mafia. Give people kindness and you buy their silence and loyalty over someone like Jack Crawford.

The bed has been remade and pillows arranged properly by the time Hannibal hears the shower shut off. He turns then and watches as Will emerges amidst a small cloud of steam. Expression complicated but mostly muted, he watches Will in silence for a few seconds and then steps closer to the bed, turning down the sheets in offering.

"I believe I will take a shower and then join you in bed. Get some rest, Will."

* * *

Will feels uncertain as he walks back into the room. The bed has been stripped and changed. Just like that, clean like he is. Hannibal is redressed and looks calmer, hair straightened and armor back in place. The impressions and implications bound through his head like wild animals. Will feels an amalgamation of conflict and exhaustion. He's also keenly aware of how damn _good_ he feels from his orgasm.

When he'd made the decision to run away with Hannibal, this isn't at all how he thought things would go... He's not supposed to feel guilty and think about throwing his plans to the wayside. But he can't stop considering other possibilities now. A door has been opened and he wants to poke his head inside and look around because maybe there can be safety and comfort found within. A future with Hannibal Lecter... Maybe it's not such bizarre idea.

At the sight of Hannibal tugging down the sheets for him, Will nods. He walks over to Hannibal, rubbing at his face.

"Thanks, all right," he mumbles. The words are out before he can think on the fact that he's actually _thanked_ Hannibal. Will climbs into bed and yanks the sheet up, turning his back to Hannibal. The bed is soft and inviting and he quickly closes his eyes as he hears Hannibal make his way to the bathroom. In minutes he is asleep.

_He dreams that they're naked and in dark, choppy water. Their heads are above the surface, their feet and arms constantly in motion treading water. The moon is barely a sliver in the clear night sky and there is no shore in sight. They're close and Hannibal's eyes are unnaturally bright, trained on him. Will has to keep on kicking to stay afloat, but he's so tired, his muscles aching and on the verge of giving up. They've been at this four hours, haven't they?_

_'I can hold onto you if you need rest,' Hannibal says. His face is beautiful and fierce like a forest fire. It's Will's very own destructive force offering him respite._

_Will gives him a doubtful look, but he **is** tired. Perhaps he can trust Hannibal in this. 'Okay.'_

_Hannibal swims behind him and slides his arms underneath Will's, grabbing onto his shoulders. His first instinct is to fight against it, but Will pushes past it and relaxes as Hannibal holds him. Will closes his eyes, his head tilted back. He feels Hannibal slowly swimming and pulling him along._

_'Where are you taking us?' Will asks._

_'To safety,' Hannibal answers, voice sounding a little labored from the exertion._

_The answer doesn't make sense. Will hadn't been able to see anything... But it makes him feel better, so he says, 'Okay' and trusts._

**Author's Note:**

> If you have enjoyed/liked this chapter or story, please consider leaving a comment/kudo & reblogging it on tumblr [here](http://merrythought.tumblr.com/post/173048618243/lover-to-your-nightmare-look-what-you-made-of-me) \- thanks <3


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